


Dancing on Wire

by just_kiss_already



Category: Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Play, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Gen, Guns, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Kidnapping, Non-Sexual Age Play, Pain, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-25 16:58:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 54,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6203452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_kiss_already/pseuds/just_kiss_already
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the Alexander Pierce should have died slower series by LauraLot. What if Matt had been the one to find Bucky first?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shock Me Awake

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Love Is for Children](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1790728) by [Lauralot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot). 



> I absolutely adore the Alexander Pierce should have died slower series so much!!! It's a really important series to me, so when LauraLot posted on her Tumblr that it was okay to write works based on hers, I jumped at the chance. I'm not sure I'm capturing either character's voice as well as I'd like.
> 
> Beta'd by my lonesome, so please let me know of any errors so I can fix 'em! Thank you!!

The new heartbeat that filters through the sound of breaking bone is loud, crashing like cymbals as it rushes towards him. Matt recoils, lip curling as his adrenaline spikes again. The would-be mugger he caught up to yelps abruptly and the smell of his blood, the sound of his breath hissing through his pursed lips, it's as if it's all now miles away. Whoever this newcomer is, he's bodychecked the mugger hard enough to send him flying down the alley. Implying a terrifying level of strength, well surpassing Matt's own.

Shuffling away, body loose and ready for the attack he is sure is coming, Matt raises his fists to guard his chin, just like dad taught him, and listens. Racing heartbeat, teeth grinding, movement of a jacket, creak of leather boots. A strange sound, metallic rustling, high-pitched and sharp. The smell of an unfamiliar metal and oil and something like electricity surrounds the stranger. Male based on the bulk and the way he carries it. Something is off, though, he weighs distinctly more on one side, his footstep falls heavier. A pungent body odor forces it's way to the fore of Matt's senses. Homeless, maybe.

It's an eternity of waiting. The man shifts, muscles audibly relax, breathing slows. Matt could run, take off and pray the stranger doesn't have the speed to match his strength, but he's concerned about the mugger. It's one thing to subdue, it's another entirely to maim or kill, and he's not sure what the stranger's goal is. He can hear the mugger's slowed heartbeat, knows he's out cold, can't in good conscience leave him behind. 

"I saw him... attack the other one." The voice is raspy as if unused.

Matt's hands drop a fraction but he's still wary. The silence that spins out feels spiky, awkward. "Thanks for the help," he finally says to break the mounting tension.

A soft clattering of metal, parts whirring, definitely coming from around his arm. A weapon of some kind, possibly. It would account for the weight. "You look like my commander," the stranger says, his voice going softer, confused.

Completely unhelpful information. Commander. Someone dressed in black possibly? Someone who covers their face? Commander implies, what, military? Some kind of organization, maybe mercenaries or even a cult? The body language changes as he slowly shifts and the entire burning shape of him in Matt's vision seems to sag. The stored kinetic energy, the clenching of muscles in his legs and arms, it all dissipates. Heart rate is still rapid, though. Suggests something else entirely. The stranger is no longer threatening, weapon or no, instead he's clearly frightened. And tired. 

Matt lets his arms drop, finally, stands up straight. His instinct to assist takes over, his need to help those that can't help themselves. He opens his mouth but the stranger beats him to it.

"Where's the commander?" A slight lisp seems to have developed and the words come out a sibilant whisper. "Where's..." The stranger swallows, starts chewing on his lip.

"What's your name?" Matt murmurs, pitching his voice soft and warm, comforting, like he might for a child. He does it automatically then wonders about it.

"I... The. The asset?"

What does that even mean? Before Matt can react, the stranger grabs his wrist and he tenses, thinking he's being attacked, but the man just holds on, his breath hitching as he fights back tears. "Where's my daddy?" he whines. The hairs on Matt's neck stand up at the near-perfect imitation of a child; if he wasn't fully aware that this man is the only one present, Matt would swear it is impossible, that there must be a child with a deeper voice nearby.

"Who's that? Your... daddy." The word doesn't come naturally, not when he's speaking to a man with a solid fifty pounds of muscle on him. Despite the strangeness of the situation, his heart breaks a little at the clear distress the stranger is experiencing, obviously not faked. Whatever is going on, Matt wants to help.

The man swallows, fighting to speak past his tears. "I think... I think he died? I saw a paper. And it had his picture? I'm..." His pulse revs, his hand tightens on Matt's wrist, almost uncomfortably tight. "I'm in so much trouble."

Without thinking, Matt takes a step closer, gently touching the other man's arm and shocked to only feel cold metal under the stiff fabric of his jacket. Not a weapon, a prosthetic, and a heavy one at that. Unpleasantly cold.

Tension crackles briefly between them at the touch, but it melts as the stranger just sags, his head dropping down. Silence fills the alley, but Matt can hear the subtle quick inhalations, can smell the salt of tears. Again he acts on instinct, sliding his free arm over the man's shoulders and pulling him close in an clumsy half hug, his other arm still trapped in his grip. They're about the same height, adding to the awkwardness, but it doesn't stop him. 

The stranger leans his head onto Matt's shoulder before letting it roll down to hide in his neck. His tears start to soak into the collar of his shirt, but at least the kid--no--the man seems to be calming down. He releases his wrist in favor of playing with a frayed hole in Matt's shirt.

"Do you know your name?" Matt asks, trying again.

A quick head shake, then his voice, soft and muffled and full of something that sounds like wonder. Or maybe just uncertainty. "He called me Bucky..."

Oddly familiar but not enough to spring to mind. Maybe he'd read something about a missing person recently. "Okay," he says soothingly, rubbing the stranger's other arm, this one flesh and muscle. "Okay. Don't worry. I'll help you find your daddy."


	2. Tear Me Apart

For lack of a better choice, they end up at Matt's apartment. A really horrible idea and he knows it, but he has no other options, not while he's dressed this way and roughed up from fighting. And any time they heard voices approaching, no matter what was being said, Bucky would squeeze Matt's hand hard enough to ache and try to hide behind him. So no crowded police stations, not unless he was certain Bucky's flight or fight instinct wouldn't kick in.

Matt argues with himself the entire way home after they drop the mugger off at the police station, nicely trussed up with a note pinned to his broken arm.

This could all be a ruse, but it's an awfully bizarre one. To be able to pitch his voice so convincingly, to control his involuntary bodily reactions, it's certainly possible but it's an awfully extreme step to take down a man that could be killed by a well-timed bullet. So that left what? Maybe early onset Alzheimer's? Something psychological? Matt is out of his depth here. It would make more sense to call Brett, ask him for help. Pawn Bucky off on the police and social services. But he won't, and he has no idea why.

They go in through the window and Bucky has no problems keeping up, only sniffling a little at the height. They both stand quietly for a moment, Matt's mind racing as he listens to Bucky's reactions. His guest's heart rate has slowed, he seems comfortable now that they're somewhere quiet. It seems unlikely he's planning to attack anytime soon.

Somewhat comforted, he motions vaguely to the couch. "I need to change, you can sit there for now." Bucky shuffles over and settles down, huddling against the arm of it, painfully silent. Again Matt studies him, mind blanking as he tries to think of what to do to help this stranger. Instead, after a moment, he heads to the bedroom to change and check for any wounds that might need medical attention.

Seated on the edge of the bed in jeans and a sweatshirt, he smells Bucky come into the room but is surprised that he didn't hear him. "What's up, Bucky?" he asks, standing. He's still expecting some kind of blitz attack given how quick his personality had shifted earlier, so he'd like to be standing if it comes.

"I heard you... Are you hurt?" Still the childish voice, the faint lisp and hesitation. Still an edge of hysteria and sadness.

Matt must have made a noise when he was prodding at the worst of his injuries. "Just bruised," he assures his guest. "Don't worry." Creak of the wood on the floor, the hiss of flesh against flesh, Bucky must be fidgeting. Matt feels a pang of concern. "Are you okay? Do you need something?"

His voice cracks a little with unhappiness. "Bathroom." The shape of him folds in on itself, radiating fear. "I can't hold it anymore."

A new awkward experience every minute. Fantastic. Matt feels like a total heel for not mentioning where the bathroom is earlier. He points to the door and approaches slowly, hands raised as if to steady a timid animal. "I'm so sorry, it's right here." Carefully he places his hand on Bucky's forearm and guides him. "While we're at it, do you want a shower? You can borrow some clothes and I'll wash yours."

Tension abruptly radiates and the man's breath catches painfully in his throat. Matt can actually hear his stomach starting to churn with anxiety. Very strong aversion to bathing, explains why he's so stinky.

"You don't have to," Matt murmurs, soothing. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do." They stop at the door to the bathroom, Matt can feel the urgency radiating off of Bucky but he doesn't go in. Oh no. "Do you... need help?"

Bucky shakes his head and Matt almost laughs, realizing the kid--man--must not understand he's blind.

"Okay. I'll be out here when you're done."

Matt wanders into his kitchen and gets a glass of orange juice for lack of anything better to do. Then pours one for his guest, wondering if he's hungry and just didn't want to say.

The door pops open, a slight squeak of hinges, and Matt moves his face in the direction of it, curious what's going to be the next ordeal. 

"I wanna bath," says the soft shy voice, and Matt smiles. Sounds like Bucky's less tense too after using the facilities.

Matt walks over and hands Bucky his glass of juice which the kid drains immediately; he makes a note to refill it. And to try to remember this is an adult man, not a child. "Do you know how to fill the tub?" Another head shake, and another note to explain the dark glasses he wears. Matt slides past his guest and walks over to the bath, turning the huge knob to his preferred setting. "Turn it to the right for colder, the left for warmer. Uh. Can you undress yourself?" A nod. Small mercies. "Okay, you hop in and I'll get some clothes for you."

Considering the size difference, even his loosest sweats will be a tight fit, but better than putting those filthy clothes back on. Or wandering around in a towel or a blanket. It's awkward enough as is. As he fetches the pants and shirt, he makes a mental list of who he can contact for help. It's depressingly short. Foggy and Karen are out. No question. Brett is a cop, and a good one, he'd be the likeliest candidate. But that arm gives Matt pause, that and his strength. He literally sent the mugger flying, pushed him hard enough to lift him into the air and down the alley a good two or three yards. Even his metal arm can't account for that completely. Everything about it screams suspicious. Screams superhuman. Which leaves Claire but she handles physical trauma, not psychological. And it feels wrong to ask for her help when this man could actually be dangerous. Which leaves no one.

Maybe Bucky will remember more as he calms down. Maybe he'll even become an adult again, though that offers its own set of problems. Potentially life-threatening problems.

The water shut off about ten minutes ago. Knocking on the door, Matt calls out, "doing okay?"

Rustle, gentle splashes, then an "uh-huh."

"Do you want me to leave the clothes outside the door?"

Another pause. "Okay."

Okay then.

Matt retreats to the kitchen, refilling Bucky's glass and his own. After a bit, the squeal of hinges, quick cotton rustling, the door closing again. The click of the lock. Interesting.

When Bucky finally emerges, he's thankfully clothed and dry and no longer horribly ripe, now smelling oddly familiar, Matt's shampoo and dryer sheets preceding him.

"Your clothes are in the washer," Matt supplies, wanting to make sure he's not worried they were stolen. Or burned, a viable option considering how grimy they were. Bucky just stands there, though, and again there's the sound of his stomach rolling. "Are you hungry? That's your glass of juice." He pushes the full glass towards the kid.

Bucky winces visibly even to Matt's limited fiery sight.

"It's okay, don't be scared. What's wrong?" Matt's starting to seriously consider this is psychological instead of physiological, given the way Bucky seems to be in a constant state of fear. This extremely strong man relying on the flimsy doorknob lock to the bathroom says a lot about his state of mind.

"I... I'm not supposed to... thank... people other than my daddy," the gentle voice whispers. He's toying with the hem of his sweatshirt, shuffling one bare foot over the other. 

Matt smiles warmly. "You don't have to thank me, I just want to help." The fidgeting quiets down a little. "Drink your juice. Are you hungry?" Bucky nods, damp hair slapping against his skin. "Have a seat and I'll make..." He tries to remember what he has available, it's been a while since he's picked up groceries, been too busy. "Eggs." Sure enough, a half-full carton is waiting for him, so he starts pulling out garlic powder and onion flakes, trying to remember how to make scrambled eggs. He hears Bucky pull a chair out and sit down at his little table; his metal fingers click against the glass bowl of fruit as he toys with it.

He needs to start addressing the elephant in the room, now that basic human needs are pretty much addressed. "Bucky, what's your daddy's name?"

"Pierce."

Oh, this is going to be like pulling teeth, isn't it. "Is that his first or last name?"

"Last... I think?"

The oil in the pan starts hissing. "You said you saw his photo in the paper? What did it say?"

A little whine enters his voice. "I couldn't read it. But the woman with the paper said he died." A sobbed breath that's quickly bitten down and held until he can speak again. "She said he deserved it. Sh-she said it saved everyone the exp-p-pense of a trial."

Pierce. Good god, he couldn't mean-

Calmly, Matt reaches into his utensil drawer and pulls out a steak knife along with the whisk.

Alexander Pierce, formerly one of the heads of Hydra. It's all over the news.

There's a pressure against him without actual contact, a nearly physical sense of menace, and it takes Matt much too long to realize it's Bucky. His houseguest somehow got up and managed to get inches from him without alerting him in the slightest. Terrified, Matt whips around, hip cracking against the countertop painfully, knife in hand. He knows in hand to hand combat, weapon or no, he's utterly outmatched. He's dead.

"Bucky," he says, soft and low and questioning.

Not quite Bucky, though. A wholly different person is standing before him. Spine straight, shoulders raised, filling space when the Bucky he knows tries to minimize. His body isn't tense, his breathing and heart rate both slow and even. But the threat rolling off of him is unmistakable, pushing against Matt like the tides of the ocean. If he could back up, he would.

"Положи его на стол." His voice is icy, predatory, and freezes Matt to his core. Another language, European.

A chill brushes against the skin of Matt's hand and he knows the metal arm is close, not quite touching, but within grabbing distance. Breaking distance. "I don't know what that means." Sweetened voice, keep it calm. 

Damp hair brushes Bucky's shoulder as he tilts his head curiously. "Put it down," he says, very faintly accented. Russian.

Matt forces a mild smile on his face and loosens the death grip he has, jumping a little internally when the knife clatters on the floor. "It's okay, Bucky."

Angry inhale. "That's not my name. I don't. Don't like that name."

"Sure." Matt nods. He takes a moment to try to calm down. He was absolutely certain he was about to die for a minute. Still could go either way. "You... still want food?"

Bucky or whoever pulls away, audible steps this time, but then as silently as he approached he's gone and Matt can hear the creak of his bed. So. For lack of anything better to do. Eggs, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sort of ignoring timelines here. Daredevil took place pretty quickly after the battle of New York, whereas WS takes place two years after it. However! The movies seem to generally take place around when they were released (WS was released two years after Avengers) and work on Daredevil began a year after the Avengers came out... So if we sort of stretch out the series timeline and squint really hard and sort of look the other way... It works out, I swear. Or not at all?


	3. Pinned Like a Note

Matt first makes sure to put the knife back in the drawer before he can step on it. He's not sure what triggered the change, whether it was him pulling out a weapon or the discussion of Pierce.

Next he dumps the scrambled eggs on one big plate and sets it aside, sets the pan in the sink to deal with later. He wants so badly to turn to the simple domestic task, cleaning up after cooking, but he has a feeling that leaving his houseguest alone too long could have serious unintended repercussions. He doesn't know how this switching works and it would seem maybe Bucky, the little one, doesn't know either. Or maybe he just didn't feel like warning Matt. Hopefully time, or calming down, or even just his appetite, will help bring the other version of Bucky back.

The bedroom door was left open, Matt fully intends to knock on it, stick his head in the room to announce the food is ready. But his feet drag for a moment and he pauses in the middle of the living room. Bucky, or whatever this one wants to be called, can move in silence and speed so complete that Matt apparently can't keep track of him. He could be anywhere in the apartment. He could be behind Matt right now. He pushes away the urge to swing his arms around to check. Instead he listens closely, can hear steady breathing and bedsprings barely protesting as Bucky shifts minutely, can hear the creak of what sounds like healing injuries when he listens harder. Yet another thing to feel like an ass about, not considering that his guest might be hurt.

"Bucky," he calls out before he can stop himself from saying the name. His legs don't seem to want to move and he doesn't feel particularly interested in forcing them. "Still hungry?"

Movement. So loud in the relative quiet of the apartment. That seems promising, the sound of his feet hitting the floor. Bucky appears in the doorway and the body language is familiar. Matt sighs, relaxing. The kid again. 

"Come sit at the table with me, let's eat," Matt says. After the heart-stopping terror earlier, he can't keep from smiling now, his relief is so palpable.

Matt is setting the plate down when he hears the whimpering. Bucky's still in the doorway to the bedroom, sniffling quietly, very obviously on the brink of tears. His eyes are damp and Matt can hear the wet click of his eyelids fluttering down rapidly, trying to keep it in. It's his Bucky so he isn't afraid to approach him, though he takes it slow.

When Bucky doesn't pull away or switch personas, Matt gently rests his hand on the kid's back and rubs in small warm circles, feels the way he goes still and tense, hears the quiet hitch of his breath. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry," Bucky says, his voice so soft it's almost a whisper. "I'm so sorry, I just got scared when I saw the knife and I thought you were mad at me. I'll be good! I'm sorry."

Oh. Oh that makes more sense. When he's scared the other one comes out. Or maybe for any extreme emotion. Except guilt, apparently. Matt's an expert at guilt, though, Catholicism makes sure of that at an early age. "Bucky, I'm not upset, it's okay. No one got hurt. I understand." The words do little to soothe, apparently, Matt can hear the kid swallowing repeatedly, can feel the anxiety radiating off of him. "Come on, let's go eat before it's cold." The muscles in Bucky's back release a little, finally.

They eat off of the same plate, both ravenous, consuming all six eggs' worth of food within minutes. Matt refills their glasses and then Bucky's again after he drains it. Feeling safe enough to leave him at the table, Matt washes the dishes and the pan, sets them on a towel to dry. Behind him, Bucky grunts as he stretches and yawns, the metal plates of his arm trilling as they shift open and closed. A strangely melodic noise, not the typical screech of metal on metal. 

The yawn is infectious and Matt realizes he still has work tomorrow. Today, he corrects himself, he's sure it's well past midnight. 

"Okay," Matt declares, turning to rest his lower back against the counter top. "Time for bed." He feels the tension ramp up a little, the sharp intake of breath, and he quickly adds, "I'll sleep on the couch. You get the bed." There's a lock on the bedroom door and he's sure Bucky will appreciate that.

While Bucky uses the restroom one last time, Matt quickly switches his clothes to the dryer. He doesn't know if Bucky will want to leave in the morning, but he should be prepared.

Matt doesn't accompany his guest all the way into the bedroom, lingering back with one hand on the doorknob. "I'll be right on the couch if you need me," he reminds him as Bucky settles into the bed under the sheets, still fully dressed in his sweatpants and sweatshirt.

"Thank you," Bucky murmurs, and oddly enough it's not the kid voice. The lisp is gone, instead it's replaced by bone-weary misery. "You didn't have to do... any of this."

Not the Russian, not kiddo Bucky, then who is this now? "I like helping people," is the only explanation Matt can muster at this point. What's he supposed to say? He didn't feel comfortable letting an inhumanly strong man with the mind of a child wander the streets of his city? His blindness makes it easy to ignore the fact that he's not talking to an actual kid and he couldn't just ignore a frightened lost child? "Night, Bucky."

As he swings the door closed, he hears the faint, exhausted "goodnight." 

Matt sets his alarm and crawls under the blanket on the couch, feeling much more tired than he usually does after a patrol. It's been an extraordinarily long night.

The click of the bedroom door opening wakes Matt immediately and he wonders which one this is. He tries not to picture the Russian appearing beside him and snapping his neck. Soft footsteps, dragging a tad, miserable lurching breathing like the kind after a crying fit. Little Bucky, then. Matt's heart breaks, the kid is always on the brink of tears. He feigns sleep as he listens to Bucky rustling around in the bathroom; when he emerges, he's carrying the towel he used to dry off with after the bath.

All right, that is odd.

There's a lot of quiet movement in the bedroom, the sound of the sheets being pulled off, the gentle snap of the fitted sheet's elastic clueing him in. Even odder. He's taking the sheets off? He doesn't know where the linen is kept, why would he be changing the sheets?

The faint odor of urine hits his nose as Bucky drags the sheets and towel back to the bathroom. Matt debates pretending to be asleep, wondering if helping would just embarrass him, but he can hear Bucky silently crying in the bathroom. A long, reedy exhalation like someone screaming without sound, followed by a shuddering inhalation. Unnerving, to be honest. But Matt's conscience won't let him stay in his makeshift bed while the kid tries to deal with it all on his own. 

Bucky holds his breath and begins furiously wiping at his eyes when Matt shuffles up to the door.

"Don't worry about it," Matt says. His own throat feels strangely tight, as if crying is contagious. "I have a washer and dryer in the closet." It's one of those little stacked types, he bought it when he started seriously patrolling at night. Kind of hard to explain all the blood and the black mask at the laundromat. Belatedly he realizes Bucky must not be wearing any pants, he shifts on the edge of the tub and there's the distinct sound of skin unsticking from porcelain. "Do you need a bath?"

"...sorry," is all Bucky manages to get out.

Matt can't help himself. He walks in and pulls Bucky close, squeezing him tight. The position's awkward, Bucky's face is smashed into his stomach, but he can't help it. He's been so careful, trying to avoid full contact, only little kind touches, but after a full evening of caring for what is essentially a deeply traumatized child, he just wants to pick him up and hold him, protect him. He'll have to settle for this.

Not unexpectedly, Bucky tenses up against him, but it doesn't take long before he shifts. Matt thinks he's just wiping his wet face on his shirt, sort of endearing, but Bucky is moving further, sliding his face lower, the heat of his breath now on the front of his sweats. Startled, Matt jerks away.

"No, Bucky no. What-" Matt tries to gather his thoughts, take stock. From the body language, the racing pulse, the wet miserable breaths, it's still the kid. Is Matt overreacting? It definitely felt sexual though, like a clumsy come-on. "What are you doing?"

"That's... You've been so nice... I th-thought you w-wa-wanted me to thank you!" He's shaking violently, arms wrapped around his stomach. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Matt remembers earlier, Bucky saying Pierce didn't like him thanking other people. Matt's stomach knots and he has to fight the urge to gag. His skin crawls. All the times Bucky flinched at being touched, that had made sense, he was scared and traumatized. But whenever Matt offered him something, has he been fighting himself on whether to offer his body up or not? Has he been wondering this whole time if this was just an effort to manipulate him into sex? He'd assumed the daddy nickname came as a result of the age regression, not the other way around. 

"Oh, Bucky," Matt whispers. He wants to hug him again, but he doesn't dare. "You don't have to do that, you never have to do that again. I... I just want to help you. I don't want anything from you." He crouches, gets level with the kid. "Okay? You never have to let anyone... touch you like that. Ever again." Jesus Christ he is not qualified in the slightest for this. He definitely needs to get help in the morning. Is that where his childish side came from, then? Some sort of sick game his "daddy" played? 

Bucky doesn't reply, just sits in frozen silence, barely breathing.

"Oh, Buck..." Matt stands and turns on the water in the tub, careful to not touch the other man. "I'll take the dirty stuff and get you some clean clothes. Bucky... It's okay. Everything is okay. You're safe here. Just... Go ahead and get in the tub when you're ready." He can't help himself, runs a hand over Bucky's hair, wanting to comfort him somehow and not knowing how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So part of why Bucky takes so well to Matt is because he keeps receiving instructions. Sit on the couch, sit at the table, don't be scared. The soldier part of him is comforted by it and consequently kept in relative check.
> 
> Also, Bucky is an assassin and moves very quietly and very quickly. Matt can actually track him, but when his guard is down and he's not focused on it Bucky can take him by surprise. If they were in combat, Matt absolutely would know where he was at all times.
> 
> Oh also! In APSHDS it seems like all the sides of Bucky are aware of what's happening even when they're not in control. So when Adult Bucky makes an appearance, he knows what's been going on. He doesn't panic about being in a stranger's care because he recognized that Matt was a doing a good deed in the alley and has since then received nothing but kindness, so he's just relieved to be somewhere safe and warm and dry after spending so much time on the run.
> 
> He still has his long-term forced amnesia, though, so that's why he wouldn't seek out Steve instead. He knows he's connected to Captain America, recognizes the Bucky of the past looks like him, but he also knows he was ordered by his last master to kill him. Pretty confusing.


	4. Prison of Sleep

"Seven. Seven. Seven."

Matt grabs his cell phone off of the table and manages to turn the alarm off, trying to hold in a groan. Work is out of the question. He's exhausted, sore, and he can't exactly leave his new guest here by himself. "Call Foggy."

Voicemail, thankfully.

He can hear Bucky rustling around in the bedroom through the door but after a minute it's silent again, leaving only the distant sounds of early New York traffic. Matt doesn't even have the energy to toss the phone onto the table, just lets it slip from his fingers as his eyelids drift shut. 

This time it's a firm pounding on the door that wakes him. Dragging himself up, Matt can smell Foggy's cologne and winces inwardly. This is going to be hard to explain.

"Okay, one? Ask who's at the door. You're gonna get freaking stabbed opening it up blindly. Pun intended. Two. What is this critical situation that just came up? You come into the office all beat up more days than not, seriously, I half-expected you to be in the hospital."

"Morning, Foggy." Matt's lips twitch as he tries to hide his grin. He wants to be annoyed but can't. He also can't think of a decent excuse, his brain feels like it's wrapped in cotton.

"And a good morning to you, Matt Murdock. It's only one in the afternoon, so-" Foggy's perpetual stream of consciousness stutters to a halt when the bedroom door opens and Bucky peeks out. "That's not a critical situation!" he hisses.

As quickly as Bucky poked his head out, he retreats and the door closes. Matt can hear the lock click.

"Dude!" Foggy whispers. "I... I can't believe you never told me you play for both teams! And oh my god he looked like he could crack a walnut between his thighs!"

Matt frowns, confused for a moment before he considers how it must have looked. "Foggy, no, he's a guest. I slept on the couch. Wait, why is that your assumption?"

"It wouldn't be the first time you called in sick because you were up all night so to speak!"

"Why are you whispering still?"

Foggy huffs, aggravated.

"He's an elementary school friend. Dropped by to visit. He's just really shy and I'm sort of... looking after him?" Matt runs a hand over his face, rubs the sleep from the corners of his eyes. "Look, I'll be in tomorrow-" probably, he adds mentally- "I just need today to help him get situated." With a gentle push, he propels his friend down the hall. "Call me if something comes up."

"Yeah, all those clients beating down our door," Foggy grumbles, but resignation is in his voice. "Fine. I'll cross-examine you later, Murdock."

Matt waves cheerfully as he closes the door, ignoring his friend's muttering, and listens to Foggy's footsteps recede. That didn't go great, but it wasn't too bad, either. At least now he doesn't have to deal with that side of his life for the rest of the day. After a minute he heads to the bathroom, bladder ready to burst.

So. What to do about Bucky. The only person that he's been able to connect to him is dead, not to mention a member of some old-timey evil organization. Which suggests that anyone else with ties to Bucky would potentially be Hydra, too, and returning him to their hands seems like a terrible idea, for both Bucky and the world at large. Which leaves? A lot of nothing. Here's hoping something surfaces the better he gets to know him, another name, preferably one belonging to someone a lot less sinister. But. He did mention a "commander" when they first met. That doesn't sound particularly promising, honestly, but it's the only lead he has.

A shower sounds pretty nice right now. Matt raps his knuckles lightly against the bedroom door. "Bucky?" He concentrates. Movement, rustling of clothes and sheets and long hair, deep sigh, a sniff, footsteps headed his way. No clues as to which one it is that will be opening up.

Faint bad tang in the air of the room, the mattress must have gotten wet, too. And the scent of a new person, Bucky's own personal smell, but oddly enough it's becoming comfortable, he's getting used to it mingling with the familiarity of home. "How are you doing?"

"Okay," Bucky murmurs. Matt suspects it's the child.

"I'm pretty hungry, but I don't have a lot of food here. Do you want to go to the store with me?" He's hoping some simple activities will keep Bucky busy and distracted enough to avoid any panic when Matt starts asking about this commander. He senses Bucky nodding. "What do you like to eat?"

Bucky chews on his bottom lip for a moment. "I dunno. Don't remember."

That's sort of odd. Well, odder than some of the other odd things surrounding this mysterious guest. Even kids, no, especially kids have favorite foods. And most kids have foods they won't touch even if you bribe them. "No worries, we can figure it out. I'm going to shower first, will you be okay for a bit?" A nod. Matt can't help it, he starts grinning. "Bucky, I'm... I'm blind, honey." A small puff of a laugh escapes and he hopes he won't take it personally. Matt pulls his glasses off, turns his face in his direction so he can see his eyes.

Bucky inhales sharply. "I'm sorry!" A sniffle, Matt senses a coming storm of tears.

"It's okay, don't cry, Buck, really. It was pretty hectic last night, don't worry." He rubs Bucky's arm, the metal one, hoping maybe contact that isn't flesh to flesh would feel safer. "Look, why don't you get your clothes out of the dryer and switch the sheets over. I'll be fifteen minutes, tops."

Mid-shower Matt realizes he called Bucky "honey." He's going to have to watch it. Not just for the fact that nicknames could be triggering. He's going to have to watch himself, keep enough distance. Not get too emotionally involved. Bucky needs serious help, psychological help, and Matt can't provide it. Better to find someone who can as fast as possible.

Together they wash the foul-smelling mud off of Bucky's boots in the kitchen sink. Matt loans him a sweater, roomy enough that it's baggy. Unfolding his cane, he closes and locks the door behind him and they set off. The local bodega would probably be fine, but it's cramped and--from what he understands--claustrophobic. Instead, he thinks traveling a little to get to a real grocery store might not be a bad idea. It's a little hike but it's worth it. 

It isn't until they turn onto 7th that Matt realizes someone is watching them. It's busy as usual, this close to Times Square, and Bucky has not only grabbed Matt's hand but a fistful of his shirt with the other; he's keeping his metal hand tucked up his sleeve, but he's still able to hold so hard he's practically choking Matt with his own collar. When he starts laughing and tugging his shirt away from his neck, a heartbeat leaps to a gallop so hard and fast that it's impossible to miss, Matt doesn't even have to concentrate to hear it. He can't pinpoint it, it's moving with the flow of foot traffic, he can't even point it out to Bucky to ask for a description.

Matt doesn't want to frighten Bucky, so he opts to not say anything. He tries to pull him along faster but is stopped cold after a minute when Bucky digs his heels in.

"What-?" Matt starts, turning. He can make out that the other man in staring vividly into a shop window. "What is it? Describe it to me."

"It's... Captain America. But it's all round? Like a tube? And sort of fluffy."

Matt blinks, confused. The door opens next to them and he hears the voices of children, smells new plastic and candy, the sound of credit card machines. A toy store. Sort of fluffy implies a stuffed animal. But a tube? Matt tries to hear if that racing pulse is still close, but he's lost track of it in the sea of hearts around them. Bucky squeezes his hand and it brings him back to the present. A stuffed animal. "Do you want one?" Kids need stuffed animals, don't they? Bucky goes silent and unnaturally still, so Matt makes the decision for him, pulling him inside.

He's careful not to directly offer the stuffed animal to him, instead he lets Bucky lead them over to the display; Matt runs a hand over them and feels terry cloth noses and embroidered eyes. And yes, they're definitely tubes. He hears Bucky pick one up, feels the shifting as he squeezes it to him. "How's it feel?"

"It's nice," Bucky says, shy but secretly pleased. They opt to skip a bag at the register, instead asking the salesperson to cut the tag off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot in Daredevil Matt actually has experience later on dealing with strong childlike people (I say childlike because in Melvin's case I don't think it's actual age regression?)! I almost cried at that scene, I felt so bad for Melvin!!! When he starts crying!!! Oh my god!!!!! I'm rewatching the show as I write this and, confession time, I could watch a bloody Charlie Cox cry all day every day. I need to work that visual in somehow lol.
> 
> Also, yep it's a tsum tsum. Looking at a map of New York, if you go to a whole foods from Hell's Kitchen, you'll come across the Disney store.


	5. Deeper Now

At the store, Bucky is less than helpful when it comes to deciding what to eat. Whenever Matt suggests something, it's met with confusion. Bucky knows what some of it is, but even then he doesn't know if he likes it. The meat counter produces an interesting stress response, especially the steaks. Chicken it is. He decides on quesadillas, they're easy enough and seem like a decently kid-friendly food. Kids love cheese, right?

In the store, there's so suspicious activity. No racing heartbeats, no uncomfortable sense of being watched. Even Bucky seems calmer, clutching his new stuffed animal to his chest.

It's not until they hit 42nd does the watcher make an appearance again.

That same galloping pulse. Matt pauses on the corner, listening. Voices float past him, talking about weather and traffic and sightseeing and taxis and-

There. A man's voice, soft, speaking into a cellphone. Matt can hear the crackling electronic voice that responds but not what it's saying. "Absolutely sure. He's with someone... Don't know. I'll check it out... Got it."

The chance that he isn't talking about Bucky seems ridiculously slim. 

Matt pulls him closer, speaks under his voice. Bucky's superhuman strength suggests any people looking for him might have their own super-abilities. "Bucky, do you recognize anyone around us?" The other man stiffens, standing tall so abruptly it's like his spine is a spring. "Don't panic," Matt whispers. "Don't say anything, just look around. Squeeze my hand if you recognize someone."

The tense moment spools out. Then a squeeze. Hard. Matt can feel his bones shifting. 

"Let's go. Follow me. Don't look at them again, keep your eyes on me."

They hustle, something about Bucky parts the crowd easily enough that they're able to make it down an alley in what feels like record time for mid-day Manhattan. Matt tosses his cane aside and races to the nearest fire escape. Thankfully, Bucky manages to keep up and keep fairly quiet even on the rickety metal stairs. Tracing a rooftop route in his head, Matt leaps over the narrow gap between buildings, Bucky's heavy footsteps behind him; as they flee, Matt offers a pray to Saint Michael and, just in case, Saint Germaine on Bucky's behalf.

He takes to the streets again the closer they get to Hell's Kitchen, listening for anyone showing signs of exertion or that soft voice. Nothing. Just in case, he walks a path around the block before cutting down a side alley to get to the door.

As they walk up the stairs, Matt realizes the man next to him is not the child anymore and a cold chill races down his spine.

"You recognized him?" Matt asks, disturbed by the silence. 

Accented voice, monotone. "We fought before. He had wings. He does not have wings now." Superhumans it is, then. Fantastic. Matt hopes they're not working for Hydra but isn't counting on it. "Don't worry, дядя, I will kill him next time I see him."

"What? No, don't- don't kill anyone." Matt unlocks his door and wonders if he's going to get his neck snapped for being stern. He's not sure how to handle the Russian, what's okay and what's crossing a line. As Bucky passes him into the apartment, he hears the rustle of plastic bags and is shocked that he managed to hold onto the groceries even while they were running.

Orders seem to be okay, so Matt tries again. "Take the food out of the bags and set them on the counter, please."

As Bucky complies, Matt pulls out the tools he's going to need. He doesn't cook often, it's not really worth the effort for just one person, but he has the supplies. Sauce pan for frying because of the higher sides, talking meat thermometer, even the labels on the seasonings are in Braille. Foggy seems to think his cooking skills leave something to be desired but so far no one has ever gotten sick.

Bucky's standing next to the groceries, Matt can feel his eyes on him. The weird tube stuffed animal is resting on its back on the countertop. "I need to cut the chicken eventually. Is that going to be a problem?"

"No."

"Okay..." Not entirely comforting but better than nothing. Matt feels the dial for the stovetop, setting it at medium-high. He works silently on the chicken breast, awkwardly aware of the other man standing at attention like a soldier. "If I ask you questions about your past, will you be honest with me?"

This time the answer is slower and decidedly reluctant-sounding. "Yes."

"Who is the commander you mentioned?"

"Rumlow. He is my handler."

Matt grabs the meat thermometer. It declares in a robotic voice the chicken is at 175°F. Matt slides the pan to the burner that's off. "Is he Hydra?"

"Yes."

Well that resolves that. Another useless lead. "Is there anyone you know that doesn't work for Hydra?"

The pause is long and heavy and Matt dearly wishes he knew why. When Bucky speaks, the accent is less pronounced and there's a hint of something, a New York accent, sharpening some of the consonants. "I know... Steve?"

Matt slides the chicken onto the cutting board and very carefully begins cutting it into thin strips. To distract Bucky and hopefully keep him calm, Matt orders him to bring him the other ingredients over. Bucky stands next to him, lingers there, and his body language has softened, is no longer suffused with military rigidity.

"I think I know Captain America," Bucky murmurs, and Matt almost slices his fingertip off. That is an unexpected announcement. First nazis and now the embodiment of American superheroism. Why not. "I fought him. He said my name and dropped his shield. Then he fell in the river and I pulled him out."

River. The Potomac down in Washington, he's guessing. Matt struggles to remember the news reports, he hadn't paid much attention to them, it seemed so surreal and far away. That was Bucky? What did the newspapers call him?

"Winter Soldier," Matt whispers, and abruptly Bucky is all soldier again, fingers digging into the countertop, the metal ones crushing it. 

"You know me?" the Russian growls. "Are you with the Captain?"

Matt tries not to swallow, tries not to move. "Your name was in the paper. They called you that. I don't know Captain America."

"You fight like they do. You go out in your costume and fight. Liar. Предатель!"

He's going to die. Bucky's heaving breath is filled with fury. How to bring the child out. How to bring anyone out anyone else. He doesn't know how to trigger the change. But... that's not quite true. There's a way he suspects would work, but it's too vile to contemplate. No, he won't resort to that, mimicking the abuse Pierce utilized to control him.

"Back away from me." Matt struggles to sound calm, assured. Bucky doesn't move away, but he also doesn't take the knife and slit his throat. Matt tries again, filling it with angry command. "Back up now!"

Bucky stumbles back, gagging. He tries to speak but he keeps heaving as his stomach lurches noisily. Matt rushes to the other man's side just as Bucky drops to his knees; he stops himself from touching him at the last moment. He doesn't want to spook him any more than he already has. 

"Bucky?" Matt murmurs, crouching down to be level with him. "Bucky? It's okay, you're okay." Shivering, Bucky clings to Matt's shirt and for a terrifying moment he thinks he means to attack him, but he's safe, it's just the child, hysterical with misery. Matt wraps his arms around him, settling down on the floor, pulling Bucky close. "You can't help it," Matt says. He doesn't know if Bucky is listening, but he hopes maybe his voice will be soothing. "Don't worry. You can't help it. I know. I'm not upset. You were good, you didn't hurt me." Matt pets his arm, feeling the edges of the plates through the sweater. "Do you want your stuffed animal?"

There's a tiny nod against his chest and Matt stretches, manages to snag the little round foot of the Cap toy. They sit silently together until Bucky's loose and limp in his arms, exhausted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian!  
> дядя = uncle  
> Предатель = traitor
> 
> I had to google how to cook chicken...
> 
> When I wrote this, Bucky physically attacked Matt instead of just crushing the counter, and Matt does actually resort to manipulating him. I felt that was way too dark and angsty and out of character. Matt would rather die fighting than abuse anyone.


	6. The Rabbit Hole

Footsteps on the fire escape. They're fast and quiet, sounds like sneakers from the soft soles rubbing on the metal, heavier weight on each step. They stop at the window, peering in at Matt on the couch as he continues to feign sleep. After a minute, they continue on. Towards the bedroom. Matt prays they don't stop there, prays that Bucky won't wake up, prays that Bucky is already awake and hiding. He tenses, ready to leap up, but there's a shoe squeak as the watcher turns, a rattle, a strange high-pitched series of noises, then silence. Matt knows it was the guy from earlier, the watcher, and apparently he still has his wings after all, though there was a definite mechanical edge to their unique sound. Something tickles the back of Matt's mind regarding wings and the Potomac River incident and he again regrets not paying more attention.

Matt gets up, goes to the bedroom door, shocked to find it's open. That's entirely unlike Bucky. Heart racing, he realizes he can't hear anything in the room, none of the noises he associates with his guest. It isn't until he hears the quiet trill of metal plates shifting that he realizes Bucky is awake and lurking in the shadows of the landing by the door.

"I can still pursue him," the Russian says. "He followed us home."

A small spot of warmth blooms in Matt's gut when Bucky says that the word "home," though he knows that's no good. He isn't some kind of pet he can keep, this is only a temporary safe haven. "Come down here. You're not going to pursue him. He didn't attack us." He sits on the couch, yawning. "What time is it?"

"Five twenty-three." The Russian walks noisily down the steps and Matt knows it's for his benefit. Interesting. Apparently the soldier side of him is warming up, too. "I'll stand guard if you wish to sleep."

Too late now, he's awake. And the thought of the man that's almost killed him twice now watching him isn't restful. "He probably won't be back." Getting to his feet, Matt stretches. "Did you get any sleep?"

"I dozed."

Not quite the same thing, but he won't argue. "I have work today..." Matt starts, but trails off. If he was certain that the Russian is the only one that would make an appearance today, he'd be willing to let him stay home while Matt went in. But there's no way he could leave the kid alone, he can just picture him sitting, clutching his Cap stuffie, scared. Or, worse, being attacked by the guy following them, not switching fast enough to protect himself. "Do you want to come with me?" Oh, that's a terrible idea. But what else can he do?

"Go with you?" He doesn't sound particularly enthused by the idea.

"I need your help, I need you to watch out for that guy again. Better odds if it's the two of us." Perfectly reasonable-sounding, even if it's not the entire truth. "I'm going to shower, let me know what you decide."

Apparently he made enough sense, the Russian was convinced. The commute is terrifying, Matt keeps listening to Bucky's heart, waiting for it to spike, hoping that will be enough warning in case the man decides to slit someone's throat for looking suspicious.

When he opens the door to the office, Matt dearly wishes he could see Foggy's face.

"Matt! And... Friend! Wow! Hello!" Foggy stumbles over his words, unnaturally chipper. "You brought your friend! To work!"

"I didn't want to leave him home alone. He's going to help out." The sound of hair brushing shoulders. Bucky must have turned to look at him. Yet another facial expression he'd like to see.

He sets his bag down in his tiny office and tells Bucky to have a seat in one of the chairs before going to get coffee and face the music. Foggy is immediately at his side and his awkward discomfort radiates like heat off of him.

"Matt, you cannot bring your sexytimes friend to work-"

"Honestly, that is an unfair assumption. I told you: elementary school friend. He's just quiet. He's going to help me out around the office, that's all. Like a service dog with thumbs."

Foggy hands him the powdered creamer, sighing. "I guess he can keep you from bumping into everything at least. You'll start looking like a lawyer instead of some kind of MMA fighter. Hey, maybe then we'll get some clients finally."

"We have clients."

"That can't afford to pay us."

Matt shrugs, smiling. It's still worth it and they both know it. Protecting those the system has turned on is it's own reward, even if it doesn't pay the bills.

"So what's his name?"

"Bucky." It sounds a little silly when he says it to someone else. Odd name. 

Foggy snorts. "Excuse me? Seriously? That's a little dated. Most of the guys named that are, what, seventy years old now."

It takes Matt a minute to process the comment. He'd started to walk back to his office but instead he grabs his friend's elbow and steers him back by the coffee machine. "Wait, what?"

"Y'know, like all the babies named after the Howling Commandos after the war ended? Bucky Barnes? I have never met anyone with that name that isn't using a walker, it wasn't real popular after that."

Howling Commandos. Captain America. Matt knows it's too bizarre to be a coincidence. But that Bucky died, if he remembers correctly. It explains how Captain America got involved, though, even if Bucky is just some brainwashed soldier that was given the name as a nasty joke. Cap doesn't seem like the kind of guy to let that go.

The day wears on and Matt comes to find he might actually like the Russian. He's got a bit of an attitude that comes and goes. Sometimes he's silent, responding only to direct orders, robotic and efficient. But sometimes, a tiny bit of attitude flares him to life and he starts sprinkling his sentences with Russian, deadpan teasing Matt when the opportunity arises, and some of the sorrow that follows him around like a cloud dissipates.

At lunchtime, Matt broaches the subject of the man following them. "Have you seen him at all today?"

"No. He knows we're on to him so he's hiding." Bucky moves to stand by the windows. His posture is surprising relaxed, shoulders slumped, back curved. Exhaustion, most likely. Matt wonders if he's ever had a full night's sleep.

He about to suggest they get lunch and head home for the rest of the day when he hears a very familiar voice. No, two. He concentrates. They're a few floors down still so he can't quite make out what they're saying, but he hears the tension in them. Arguing. One is their shadow, the watcher. The other is Captain America. Everyone knows that voice now, between documentaries in school and now the endless news clips and press conferences, his strong clear voice is as familiar as any celebrity.

Matt looks at Bucky, considering his options. Apparently Bucky notices his uneasiness because his posture changes and he's silent, poised to fight.

"We have to go," Matt says quietly, not wanting anyone to hear. "Now."

Matt throws the door to the office open, ignoring Foggy's startled exclamation, ignoring the shout from down at the bottom of the stairwell. "Up!" Matt hisses and they both take off, two steps at a time, racing against the pounding of feet on the steps behind them. Out the door onto the roof and, as Matt lets it swing shut behind him, there's an awful clang and he can actually feel sparks land on his skin. The shield must have hit the door. Bucky turns, Matt can hear his angry snarl, so he pushes him.

"Go!" he yells. He might be a tad hysterical, laughter is bubbling up inside of him. Captain America is trying to kill him and he's aiding a Hydra operative. He's on the wrong side somehow. But he can't let them take Bucky, absolutely not, he won't let them stick him in some jail to suffer alone and frightened.

They leap onto a nearby roof, Matt rolls with the impact, the door flies open behind them, Matt can hear the displaced air as the shield flies towards them again. He dodges, flings himself to the side and starts running, but there's the sound of metal hitting brick and the shield ricochets and hits him in the thigh. Matt collapses, in agony, too overwhelmed to focus on figuring out if the bone is broken.

He hears Bucky's boots skidding to a stop. "дядя-"

"Run!" he yells. "Don't go home, just RUN!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my version of Bucky's soldier is a bit different. (He's portrayed usually pretty robotic which I do totally love.) The Americans turned him into a brainwashed tool, just another weapon, and kept him frozen in between. The longer he goes without being wiped, the more human he becomes. I like the idea of the Russians treating Bucky better, which is something Lauralot has also written (please read the fic Made and Used and Wasted!!)!! So as Bucky becomes less of a weapon and more of a person, he subconsciously reverts to the Russian soldier, when he sometimes was treated like a real human being, when he actually was still a little Bucky Barnes mixed in with the Winter Soldier and it was allowed. And, as he regains more of his memories, it was the last time he ever experienced something that could almost be called happiness.


	7. Stolen From Me

Bucky's footsteps quickly vanish and Matt assumes he jumped. Good. He thinks of Saint Dymphna, hopes she's with Bucky as he runs. Watch him. Help him. He's sick and needs you.

After a minute, Matt struggles to his feet and a huge hand grabs his shoulder, the fingers digging deep enough to bruise.

"Go," the watcher says, further back, "I got him."

The hand releases and he runs off, dancer's steps, dodging obstacles with unnatural grace. Matt shivers when he thinks of what an angry Captain America could do to him.

"Stop him," he says, gritting his teeth against the agony in my leg. "Stop him! Listen, Bucky doesn't know what he was doing, he was brainwashed-"

"By Hydra, yeah, we know. Man, you have got to calm down. Can you walk?"

Matt stops, jaw hanging. "You know! Then why is he trying to kill him?!"

"What? You think- Is that why you ran? You think Captain America is gonna kill him?" The man clamps a hand around Matt's upper arm and he wishes people would stop manhandling him. 

Matt tries to tug his arm away but his heart isn't in it. "Listen to me, you don't understand, they broke him, he-..." It seems wrong to spill Bucky's secret, what Pierce did is too horrible to say out loud. "You can't lock him up, he needs help-"

"And he'll get it, we-"

"He needs- He has a toy at my apartment- He'll need his stuffed animal, please, I don't care what happens to me but swear you'll get it for him!"

There's a long pregnant pause. "Can you walk?" the watcher finally asks again. 

Matt tries to breathe through his nose, focus. Nothing's broken, just seriously injured. "Yeah." It'll hurt like hell, but he can. Better than being fireman-carried all the way down, or flown, or whatever plan he has.

"Look, guy-"

"Matt."

"Look, Matt," the watcher continues, exasperated. He gently tugs Matt to the left. "We want to help Bucky. We know he was tortured, brainwashed. He does need help. We're not going to lock him up. We're not locking you up, either, we just need to know why the hell Bucky is playing house with a dude pretending to be blind."

Matt twitches, frowning. "I'm not pretending." The watcher opens a door and they go into the stairwell, cool conditioned air brushing Matt's sweaty face.

"You run like that, jump over a damn alley, dodge the shield, and you're blind. Uh-huh."

Okay, he hadn't considered how to explain it to someone who has seen him in action. "I'm blind. I just... hear well."

The watcher snorts but lets it go. "So you wanna tell me why you were buying stuffed animals for our assassin friend?"

The stairs are agonizing, but Matt powers through, limping badly, clinging to the railing. The watcher lets his arm go but he's in so much pain there's no way he could run. "You first. Swear you guys won't hurt him. Swear he's safe."

"Listen to me. There is no way anything is going to happen to him. Cap will never, ever hurt him. Are you kidding me? His best friend? He'd kill anyone that touched him."

Matt laughs dryly. "You're trying to tell me that's actually Bucky Barnes."

The watcher waits for Matt to get his breath after two sets of stairs. "Dude, we're talking about Captain America. The man thawed recently after fighting in World War Two and you're asking me if I'm joking."

Point taken.

"I thought... I assumed Hydra named him that..."

The watcher opens a door and they go into a quiet hallway, past closed doors with quiet busyness behind them. Offices, from the sound. "They froze him when he wasn't in use." He takes Matt's arm again, leads him towards what sounds like an elevator. "We aren't going to hurt him. Seriously. I swear. Now you." They step into the elevator and Matt leans against the wall to take the weight off of his leg. "You Hydra?"

"What? No!" Not quite the question he was expecting.

"Then why'd he end up with you?"

Matt reaches down, gently rubs the tender muscle to give himself a minute, regrets it immediately. He's not keen on the idea of telling a group of superheroes about his nighttime activities. "I found him. He beat up a mugger, then started crying. I couldn't leave him there." It's true enough, but edges in on the subject he really didn't want them to know. Then again, better to explain it now before they find out on accident and hurt or traumatize him worse. "You have to be careful with him, I need to tell you what Hydra, or Pierce, someone did to him. You have to tell Cap as soon as possible so he doesn't scare him."

The door dings open and Matt frowns. It's one thing to discuss it in the privacy of the elevator, but they step into a lobby with at least three people milling around. Feels small, smells dusty. Quiet. Still unacceptable. The watcher leads him outside and directly to a running car. Matt tries to pull away, but he's held in a tight grip. The door opens and Matt's pushed in, he stumbles as his thigh quivers and his leg gives underneath him.

"It's Stark's car, relax. We're headed to the Avenger's tower." The watcher slides in next to him. The car smells new, fresh leather and plastic. It's practically silent as they take off down the road and Matt wonders if he's going to make it back in one piece. "So? What did Hydra do to him?"

Matt shivers. It's cold in the car, too much air conditioning. "They turned him into a child. He switches between being a, a Russian soldier and this child. He's been through a lot, he's traumatized, you have to treat him like an abused kid." The watcher mutters a curse next to him. "That's why you have to get that stuffed animal. Promise me."

"No problem, I'm sure Tony can find someone to get it. Explain what you mean by a 'child'?"

"He cries. He's always scared. He called Pierce his... his daddy. He tried to thank me, uh, inappropriately. He needs a psychologist. He needs therapy. Not a jail cell."

The watcher makes an annoyed noise and Matt can feel the seat puff as he flings himself back against it. "Dude get it through your head. We are not imprisoning him. We want to help him. Good guys, okay? Avengers? Sound familiar?"

"Tell me your name. I'm going to hold you accountable. Tell me your name."

"Sam." The watcher, Sam, shifts, Matt can feel him staring at him. "I'm going to make sure he's taken care of. I promise you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saint Dymphna is the patron saint of the mentally ill as well as victims of incest.
> 
> I keep forgetting to mention I have a tumblr! It's mostly reblogs of Marvel and Star Wars TFA. But feel free to say hi! http://fangirlingicizing.tumblr.com


	8. Watching the Water Give In

Crowded lobby that smells of money and expensive fabric, silent elevator that opens to an empty floor after a ridiculously long ride. Not quite empty, though. One distant, strong pulse, smell of electronics and metal and sweat. 

"This way," Sam says, no longer grabbing Matt, just putting gentle pressure on the back of his arm to direct him.

Doors slide open and a voice calls out, "okay I want to preemptively apologize for this." Air whistling past something small, sounds hollow and light, plastic. Matt lifts his hand, grabs the pen that Tony Stark has thrown at him with ease.

A deferential British voice comes from everywhere, the very walls themselves. "Sir, Mr. Murdock is in fact blind, his medical records-" 

"Yeah, I saw them. Let's be honest, cards on the table, would anyone be surprised if I said I just wanted to throw a pen at a blind man?"

Sam huffs, annoyed but privately amused. "I don't think even you would stoop quite that low."

Matt inhales deeply, listens. Ozone from machines trips across his skin and the hairs of his arms raise. Smell of old, cooling coffee. Someone was soldering recently. Tony's heart is fast but steady, seems about right from what Matt's seen of him in the media. "I hate to interrupt-"

"So don't?" A stool slides back as Tony stands up and walks towards them. His hands are waving in the air for some reason, it's almost a kind of controlled dance, but Matt senses there's a purpose behind the movements. "Okay, Helen Keller, I'm gonna babysit you while he goes to help Capsicle. Or, more accurately, Jarvis is going to babysit. I'm busy."

Matt lets the interruption slide off of his back, finds he's starting to like Tony despite himself.

"I have to go," Sam says, turning on his heel. "And don't worry, I'll try to swing by your place for the stuffed animal." Matt blushes furiously, aware of how bizarre the statement must sound without context, but he's thankful Sam remembered. 

Standing awkwardly without even his cane to clutch, Matt tilts his head, trying to figure out what's going on around him. Unfortunately, anything digital might as well not exist, tablet and phone screens that his burning half-sight can't decipher.

"Mr. Murdock," the British man speaks again, and this time Matt is able to locate a few of the many, many speakers embedded in multiple surfaces. "If you will step to the right, there's a couch there."

It's a comfortable couch and the pillow he leans on has the smell of Tony deeply ingrained, indicating he sleeps here regularly. Matt tries to get comfortable despite his aching leg, but he keeps thinking about Bucky, on the run, confused and angry and frightened.

"So," Tony's pleasant voice interrupts Matt's train of thought. He's still waving his hands around, making those grandiose gestures reminiscent of a conductor. "Anything I should know before they bring Murderbot back here? Special weapons embedded in that shiny arm of his? Code words? Triggers?"

"I wouldn't know. And he's not like that. Bucky doesn't really understand what's happening. He can't help that he's dangerous, you just need to treat him gently." Matt can feel Tony that isn't paying full attention anymore, focusing on whatever he's doing with his hands, and it rankles a bit. "What are you doing?" 

"Oh, right, blind. I'm working on upgrading one of my suits. Think of it as a lot of computer screens projected in the air around me."

"Fancy."

Tony snorts. "Well, you know. Genius at work. And as much as I love talking about how amazing I am, I have more questions." He makes a strong swiping gesture with both hands and turns to look at Matt directly. "So let's hypothetically say someone took a gander at your activity online-"

Matt's eyebrows furrow. "That would be illegal, Mr. Stark."

"One, call me Tony. Don't make this weird. Or weirder, anyway. Two, I said hypothetically. If I may continue? If this hypothetical person hypothetically looked at your digital paper trail, how would you explain all the unusual purchases? A lot of bandages, iodine, gauze, neosporin. And a downright shocking amount of folding canes. Are people stealing your canes, Matt? I know you live in a seedier part of town but that's just immoral."

"So says the man that threw a pen at my head." Matt struggles to keep himself calm, his body relaxed despite his rising anxiety and anger. And goodwill he felt a moment ago is gone. Tony's heart is beating faster but it's holding its steady pace. Apparently he really did somehow figure out Matt's purchasing habits despite the fact that he would often pay in cash. That implies a way of tracking him that makes him very uncomfortable. 

"Oh yeah, about that impressive catch. Care to explain?" Now Tony is holding unnaturally still, his attention like unpleasant heat on Matt's face.

Matt licks his lips, stalling, weighing his options. If anyone would understand vigilante justice and secret identities, it'd be this group. But Matt really never wanted to get involved with them. Gods, aliens, monsters. Hell's Kitchen was bad enough, much less all of New York, much less the entire universe. Hard enough juggling both sides of his own life. "Tend to bump into things a lot. Not really good with depth perception."

"Oh-" Tony starts, but Jarvis interrupts.

"Sir, Mr. Wilson is back-"

Matt jumps to his feet, wincing as his thigh screams, heart fluttering. "Bucky?"

"Sergeant Barnes is with him, Mr. Wilson is escorting the sergeant to the holding room."

"Holding room?"

"Steve?" Tony pipes up.

"Captain Rogers is in the infirmary."

Matt swings to face Tony, unable to contain himself anymore, furious. "Holding room? What does he mean, holding room?! Sam promised you wouldn't put him in jail, how the hell is this going to be any different?!"

"You listen to me and listen good, Ray Charles, I know you're worried about your new buddy but I am not letting you wander around this tower alone. You're coming with me to the infirmary first. Unless you want to visit a holding room of your own, I can arrange that easily."

Matt blinks, ice cold. "You're threatening to hold me against my will? Are you insane? You have no authority, you can't just kidnap-"

"No authority? Okay, let's talk authority. Who gave you the authority to take in the Terminator? Wait, let me guess: Hydra? If you expect me to believe you're just some mild-mannered lawyer and your weird ability to see despite being blind is normal, then you're absolut-"

"Tony, it's okay. I'm okay." Captain America himself, standing in the doorway. He's holding his right arm a little tenderly, moving delicately as he walks into the room. "Just a little busted up."

Tony's gone rigid, he's sweating, jaw so tense his teeth are grinding together. "A little? Looks worse than that to me."

Steve laughs, a little sad. "He didn't shoot me this time, at least."

"What did you do?" Matt snaps. "Did you hurt him?"

Sharp inhalation, Steve seems to have forgotten Matt was there. "No, of course not. Mr. Murdock, I think it's about time we had a chat. Just the two of us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay with the new chapter, it's been a rough month. Tony is a little difficult for me to write, his style of dialogue isn't one I normally would write. Let me know if it needs improvement! Thank you!


	9. Down the Drain

Steve walks ahead, leading, and seems to expect Matt to follow. Gritting his teeth, Matt limps after him; he might have enhanced senses but it's still nice to have at least a cane to feel for obstacles. When Matt can no longer hear Tony's heartbeat, his rapid breathing, he stops. This is as good a place as any to make his stand.

"I want to see Bucky," Matt demands.

There's a change in Steve's voice; whereas before he was friendly, solicitous even, now it's the steel of Captain America. "Excuse me?" Just those two words make Matt nervous, the sheer strength of will behind them.

Matt loosens his stance, lets his knees bend, ignoring the pain of his injured thigh, evens his breathing. If he has to, he will fight for this. For Bucky. This man may have history with him, certainly, but he doesn't know. He hasn't spent the last few days caring for a victimized child, for a violent soldier, for a broken man. He clearly doesn't understand if he was willing to let them put Bucky in a holding room. A jail cell. "I'll answer any questions you have after I make sure Bucky is safe."

A few quick steps and the imposing mass of the other man is looming over him, filling the space around him with righteous indignation. "I know you're adamant that you're not Hydra. Fine, even if I could take your word for it, you could be working for any number of other groups. Or maybe it's out of self interest. Maybe you want to use him for your own ends. But there is no way I'm letting you near him until I know everything there is to know about you."

"And I'm supposed to just hand him over to you? How do I know the Avengers can actually help him? How do I know you aren't going to force him to fight for you without getting him the help he needs?"

Steve pulls back, his heart is racing but his temper is dying down, Matt can feel the intensity ebbing away. Steve looks away and the sound of him furiously swallowing over and over makes its way to Matt's ears; he's emotional when his speaks. "Sam told me. About Bucky's... behavior... I wasn't fighting back, he could have hurt me more than this but he didn't. He yelled at me. He told me..." Steve shakes his head, voice breaking. "He told me to leave you alone. Both of you. He was hysterical." After a minute, Steve turns and looks at Matt's face. "Who are you, Mr. Murdock?"

It's a split-second decision, but he already feels he can trust this man. "I'm the Devil of Hell's Kitchen." The intensity of feeling behind Steve's words, his body language that screams heartache and depression, the endless caring conveyed in the way he says Bucky's name. He can trust him, more than anyone else. "I practice law during the day. At night-"

"You fight crime?" The revelation has distracted Steve, thankfully, because a minute more of his palpable sorrow and Matt would start tearing up too.

"I have enhanced senses to compensate for my blindness. But, look-"

"Wait," Steve interrupts, raising a hand, taking a step back. "Your blindness?" he asks. Matt blinks, confused. How many times is he going to have to go over this, how has Tony not made some sort of communicator for them to share this sort of information already. "I... I didn't realize. The way you took off back at your office... Oh, oh wow." He runs a hand through his hair, heaving a deep breath. "I should apologize-"

"Don't," Matt interrupts. The corner of his lip twitches into something almost resembling a half-smile. "I dodged the shield the first two times. You just got lucky." Steve snorts and Matt presses on. "I want to keep that a secret. I didn't tell Sam, I haven't even told my closest friend. As for Bucky, I found him when I was patrolling one night. He was disoriented, crying. I didn't know what else to do so I brought him home."

Steve puts his hands on his hips, the body language strangely resigned. "Is he always... that way? He was fighting at first, it was like when I first met him. But then he just broke down."

"Not always. He changes when he's scared or angry." Matt closes his eyes and focuses, draws in before opening himself completely up, filtering through the overwhelming sense information assaulting him. He's aware of Steve saying something, ignores it. It's no longer important. What's important is Bucky. Straining, he tilts his head, ear towards the floor. Nothing. "Enough," Matt says abruptly, interrupting the other man. "Take me to Bucky. He's probably terrified. I want to make sure he's safe."

"All right."

Not quite the answer he was expecting, it takes Matt a minute to catch on as Steve walks away towards the elevators.

As they descend, the temperature and air subtly changes, drops a bit, and he realizes they're underground. Less possibility for escape, somehow understandable but also unforgivable. Bucky might try to flee, most likely has tried already, but isn't it his right to leave when he wants? On the other hand he's unstable, running on instinct, and that might not be what's best for him now?

The soft sound of familiar crying reaches his ears as the elevator door slides open and Matt takes of at a run, heart racing. He hears Steve's surprised yelp, hears him catching up, but it doesn't matter. It's coming from behind a door.

Matt grabs the handle, finds it locked. "Open it now."

Without anyone touching it, the lock audibly clicks, but he doesn't bother wondering how. He opens the door, lets it shut behind him, hoping it hits Steve in the face.

"Uncle Matt," Bucky gasps, watery, a chair scraping on the floor as he rises.

Matt opens his arms and is rocked back on his feet when Bucky runs into him, arms wrapping tight around him. The familiar musical trill of the metal plates fills him with relief. If they need to, together they'll fight their way out. Bucky is strong enough to be a match for Captain America, they can do this. "Are you okay? Did they hurt you?"

Bucky sniffs against his chest, he's hunched over as if he's trying to hide against him. "No." He lifts his head, looks at Matt's face. "They hurt you though."

"I'm okay, it was a misunderstanding. Are they being nice to you? Did they say anything strange?" He prays he was right to trust Steve, prays they aren't trying to control Bucky. Using his own traumatized mind against him. They're the good guys, aren't they?

"No, they were nice. B-but they-" His voice is shattering quickly as his tears start up again. "They w-w-wouldn't let me s-see you! They said I h-had to stay here."

Matt lifts his hand, rests it gently on Bucky's wet face. When they first met, he had avoided studying his features this way, unwilling to learn a face he might not see again. But they're inexorably linked now. "I'm here. You're okay. They're not allowed to keep you from seeing me, okay?" He wipes away the tears he feels on Bucky's cheeks, surprised by the features. Strong face, broad jaw, overgrown stubble. So easy to forget he's not dealing with an actual child. "They just were trying to protect you, they want to help, they're just... They're not very good at it. But they want to help us."

Bucky rests his head on Matt's shoulder, sniffling, but doesn't say anything else. Matt rubs his back and tries to take stock of the room. He'd been expecting some kind of interrogation cell, but it's an actual room, carpet softening any echoes. Surprisingly spacious, filled with oversized couches and what seem to be oversized toys? Weird lumpy shapes, a giant teddy bear?

"Bucky, what's in this room?"

The door opens with a soft click. Smell of cologne, a lingering scent of leather, bacitracin. Steve. "It's for the Hulk. Tony made a special containment area when Bruce isn't in combat and feels the change coming. He thought a friendly environment might help him calm down."

"It's a playroom," Matt says, astonished. A giant Hulk-sized playroom.

"Tony has an odd sense of humor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I want to talk about Steve's ability to heal? Reading up on him, it says he heals at the peak of human potential. At the end of WS he was in the hospital. But sometimes I see it presented as an almost Wolverine-level of healing? I plan on writing Steve as a quick healer but ultimately still human. It might take him less time to heal, but it still takes time. I can't remember if, in the other movies, there's any representation of his healing ability? Anyone remember if there is? Or of any direct mentions of how Steve heals?


	10. I Go Missing

Bucky shuffles behind Matt, clutching at his shirt. Hiding from Steve. Matt isn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't quite this. He rests his hand on Bucky's, strokes the cold metal of his knuckles reassuringly.

"There's lots of big soft cushions," Bucky says, answering the question from before Steve came in. "And big stuffed animals. Everything's big." He pushes his face into Matt's back, the wetness on his cheeks soaking through the dress shirt.

Steve's voice is soft and carefully modulated though the strain is audible. He's trying to keep it together but it's not easy. "Sam brought you something from... your home." Saying that costs him something and he has to take a minute, swallows so hard his throat clicks. He holds out a hand and in it is a large tube-like shape. Sam remembered.

Bucky peeks around Matt and inhales sharply. His fingers spasm.

"Do you like Captain America?" Steve asks, sounding almost desperate. "Do you remember him? Do you remember me?" He takes a step closer, holds his arm out so Bucky can grab the toy without moving too far away from his protector.

Bucky snatches the toy, pulls it close as he retreats again. "I don't know," he whispers. "I remember fighting you. I hurt you really bad. I did today too."

"I heal fast, I don't even feel it anymore."

"...I knew you. Before that."

Steve moves even closer and Matt is uncomfortably aware of being caught between two people that could snap him like a brittle twig. "We were friends, Buck. A long time ago. I... I missed you so much. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I let you fall-"

With a pained whine, Bucky ducks his head behind Matt's shoulder.

"Stop." Matt turns, puts his arms around his trembling back. "Go slowly. Don't frighten him."

It's impossible to miss the way Steve's every muscle tenses. Or the way he holds his breath to keep from crying. Matt winces, sorry he was so blunt. What sort of loneliness did Steve endure when he first woke up without anything--or anyone--familiar around him. And how desperate must he have felt when he realized his closest friend was alive. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so sorry. I won't let anyone hurt you again. I love you, Bucky."

In the circle of Matt's arms, Bucky's body abruptly responds. He softens, practically going limp, though his heart leaps and races. His stomach begins to churn and Matt tries to remember the last time he heard that sound. Bucky pulls away from him, rubbing his face dry in the crook of his elbow, trying to even his breath, control it; Matt's shocked when Bucky shuffles over to Steve, head bowed, chewing his lip with a muffled clicking of teeth.

"Bucky?" Steve asks in a hushed voice. The name is loaded, heavy with questions. Why and may I and what happened and more beyond that. 

"I'm sorry, daddy," Bucky says.

The room freezes. Matt can recall now, the audible nausea, the awkward self control, all from when Bucky thought Matt might try to use him like Pierce did. And that word, so foul, tainted. He tries to remember, did Bucky say what he and Sam and Steve talked about when they were alone?

"I TRUSTED you!" Matt snarls. Reaching out, he snags the back of Bucky's shirt and drags him away from the other man, trying to get between the two. "So sincere! So sad! An act! What did you do?!"

Steve chokes, sputters, unable to get ahold of himself. "What- I didn't- What? Did you- did you teach him to say that?! He's been with you for days! You sick-"

"Don't start with that bullshit righteous act! I told Sam, I can't believe I trusted him, I told him what Pierce did and you turn around and use it against him!" Matt feels Bucky grabbing his arm, yanking on it, trying to get his attention as he pleads for them to stop. "We're leaving," Matt growls. "If you try to stop us, I will fight you. Supersoldier or not."

Silence. Deadly stillness. Matt tries to remember if Steve has his shield with him, tries to find its odd metallic scent. When Steve finally moves, Matt raises his fists, ready for the first blow, but it doesn't come. Instead, Steve turns away and walks out the door, closing it behind him. Confused, Matt drops his arms, adrenaline still skyrocketing, before he gathers Bucky up in a hug.

"I shouldn't have trusted them," Matt says against his soft dark hair. It smells of his shampoo and the dryer sheets he uses for his towels. Comforting. "I shouldn't have let you out of my sight."

Bucky is silently crying, shaking and gasping, trying to tilt his head to keep the tears from falling. "I was r-really bad!"

"No, honey." Matt pulls away, considers sitting on one of the oversized couches but is loathe to touch anything here. He briefly wonders if Bruce Banner is trapped against his will as well. "You didn't do anything wrong, I promise."

The door opens and Matt spins, pushing Bucky behind him, but he recognizes the smell. Sam. Traitor.

"I leave the tower for, what, an hour? And all hell breaks loose?"

Matt tenses, ready, hoping Bucky will change if Sam attacks since the child won't be much use in a fight. "He called him daddy." The word like poison on his lips. 

Sighing, Sam walks over to what looks like an enormous table, dropping down into a chair. "We are, again, talking about Captain America. Paragon of virtue. The embodiment of apple pie. The man is probably still a virgin. And you think, what? He was able to figure out Bucky's brainwashing and reprogrammed him? Was it before or after he was getting punched in the face? Or when I was trying to save his ass from the punching?"

Bucky whimpers and grabs one of Matt's hands in his own. "He didn't do anything wrong!" His voice is still full of anguish, quavering, but he fights through it to speak, even as he shakes like a leaf. "He said he loves me, I thought... I thought he might be my new daddy..."

"Love doesn't always mean sex, Bucky," Sam says before Matt can gather his thoughts. "And when an adult says they love a child, it definitely shouldn't mean that. What your last daddy did was really wrong, kiddo." Bucky gives a shrill noise like a tiny scream, but Sam presses on. "No one here is ever going to do that to you. And if they try to, you have to tell your Uncle Matt or me immediately, okay?"

After a minute, Bucky nods. Matt can smell the salt of fresh tears gathering in his eyes, hopes they can get him something to drink soon to replenish his fluids. Matt turns to look at the vague shifting outline of Sam, considering what the man said. It's hard to adjust his thinking yet again, the cogs of his brain are screaming from the strain of trying to decipher what is happening, the possibility that they might not be the enemy after all. He feels exhausted, his emotions and body completely wrung out, he just wants to take Bucky home and go to sleep.

"Look, you can leave at any time. Just ask Jarvis for directions, he can lead you to the front door. I was serious when I said we want to help Bucky. We all do. Steve is, well, he's just really emotional. Okay, Bucky? He's not mad at you, he's not mad at Matt either. He's just really worried about you and he gets confused."

Bucky ducks behind Matt but he can hear him nodding.

"There's a place here for you. Both of you. I can find a good therapist, I can make some calls. It's safer here, someone would always be with here with him when you go to work. Or to your other job." Sam sighs again, gets to his feet. "It's a lot to consider, I know. Why don't you take a minute, figure out if you need more time to decide."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matt can hear Bucky crying because at this point Bucky is so confused and scared that he can't control himself. Normally he tries to cry silently, but he's utterly convinced Matt is dead and he's been captured again so he doesn't even care if crying is a manipulation.
> 
> Why Matt is his "uncle" and not "daddy." Matt is so completely different from Pierce and so adept at handling everything that's come up, Bucky can't see Matt in the same light he saw Pierce. Also, Matt has tried really hard to keep a measure of distance between them, he doesn't want to get attached (but is starting to despite himself). Bucky can sense this distance but is desperate to have a "family" again.
> 
> Also? Writing three male characters in one scene and avoiding repetitive writing is just.... Oh man. Yikes. Lol


	11. Pieces Were Stolen

The bathroom is awkwardly palatial in their new apartment. Temporary apartment, Matt corrects himself. Bucky is seated on the closed toilet by the sink in soft sweatpants and a sleeveless hoodie, a towel draped over his chest and shoulders. The bathtub alone isn't even in spitting distance from over here, much less the separate shower. It's ridiculous and sort of pleasant. Everything is clean and organized; new environments that are cramped and cluttered can be unkind, confusing, disorienting. 

"Okay, Buck," Matt says. "If you get scared, tell me to stop." 

Bucky's request had been unbearably charming. His stubble is becoming a beard and is itchy, annoying, and Bucky wants it gone. He's never used an electric razor in recent memory--though history suggests he might have in the long past--and he was a little unnerved by the buzzing and vibrations. So, shy, ashamed, he asked if Matt could help. When asked if he wanted someone with sight to do it, Steve maybe, Bucky just said he wanted his uncle.

Resting his hand on Bucky's warm, fuzzy cheek, Matt turns the clippers on, feels his friend's jaw tighten, hears the sharp inhalation of repressed anxiety.

"Should we stop? It's okay if you want to wait."

Quiet as a mouse, Bucky replies, "'m okay."

Using his touch as a guide, Matt slowly walks his fingers across Bucky's cheeks and jaw, following with the razor. After a minute or so Matt pulls away, tilts his head quizzically. "Still okay?"

An affirmative noise, so he continues. It's quiet, peaceful, the room slightly humid still from Matt's shower hours ago, filled with the sweet smells of the soaps and shampoos and conditioners and lotions and whatever else Tony has so kindly provided. In abundance. Every time Bucky comes out from the restroom, any restroom in the tower, several new scents cling to him. He likes trying them out.

"Okay." Matt turns the razor off, smiles as the level of tension drops. "Check in the mirror and see if it's okay."

Bucky rises and shuffles to the sink, leans over for a close look. "It's good," he says happily as he pulls the towel off.

"If you clean up, I'll make lunch. Sound okay?" Another affirmative noise. "Need Cap?" Negative noise. After meeting the real Captain America, Bucky is a little shy about the stuffed animal but still carries it almost everywhere. Thankfully, the others are tactful enough to not mention it. 

Feeling content but also frustrated with that feeling, Matt goes into their kitchen, planning sandwiches.

Bucky can't stomach a lot of solid food, tends to get sick if he eats too much; it had been Sam's suggestion they stick to smoothies and small portions of solids. He even found a Braille book full of recipes for smoothies that pack a ton of vegetables while still tasting good. 

It's only been three days since Sam and Steve came after them, but they've already managed to settle into some kind of routine. After the excitement, there was indeed a lovely apartment ready for them both in the Tower. Almost immediately Tony had managed to install new doors throughout the floor, ones with actual locks, ones that have to be manually opened.

Their first day there, a doctor came to see Bucky, a general practitioner to take an inventory of his health. Earlier this morning was the first appointment with his new psychiatrist and psychologist, a married couple with the last name Worth.

Bucky was a shivering mess after, but Sam had promised that was normal, that this would be incredibly hard but incredibly important for his recovery. Matt knows it's true, knows Bucky needs psychological help, but it doesn't stop the overwhelming heartbreak Matt felt holding him afterwards, rubbing his back as he curled in a ball in his lap.

After another bath and a nap, Bucky had felt okay enough to brave the razor.

Over the sound of the blender, Matt hears Bucky wander into the kitchen and settle down on a chair at the island. He's made little finger sandwiches with cucumbers and cream cheese for them both.

This domesticity feels so easy, he's fallen into this role so naturally, and it bothers him. He's never been a caregiver, never nurtured a relationship beyond the physical, hasn't in years.

And how long as it been since he's patrolled Hell's Kitchen. His mission in life, his calling, and it's fallen by the wayside without much fanfare. Every time he remembers that, it's a knife twisting in his heart. His city, his home, and he's traded it for a posh apartment courtesy Stark Industries.

He's able to take time off of work thanks to Stark, too. The man is paying the rent on their office space, giving Foggy breathing room to work on fewer cases without Matt. That had been a very exciting phone call, trying to explain why exactly the famous Tony Stark had taken such an interest in their law firm personally; given Tony's new career as a superhero, though, it was easy enough to write it off as a reckless man in need of competent defense lawyers.

Pouring the smoothie into two glasses, Matt sighs, visualizing his mounting anxiety as a black cloud being pushed out of his lungs. 

Instead, he listens.

Bucky's heartbeat, steady and slow, his soft exhalations, the hiss as he rubs his bare feet together. The faint music of his metal arm working perfectly. Oh, how Tony had fussed, practically begged to be given a few hours to study it, only relenting under Steve's disapproving glare.

Bucky is calm here, now. Without fear, without paranoia. And as shy and nervous as he can be around the others, he still knows they have his best interest at heart.

Matt smiles, setting the plate and glasses down, snagging a straw for the kid. It's time to go back to work. His real work. Tonight.

"What should we do today?"

It takes Bucky a minute to respond as he slurps his smoothie down. "Movie?" he asks.

Matt has come to realize that when Bucky wants to watch a movie, he's tired and really just wants to just curl up and doze. He's shown a preference for the Princess Bride already, asking for it twice yesterday.

Grabbing his battered copy of Thurgood Marshall, Matt settles into the corner of the plush leather couch and lifts his arm, letting Bucky snuggle in close and rest his head on his chest, his Cap stuffie squeezed tight between them. Draping a blanket over Bucky, Matt rests the hardback on the wide armrest, it's broken spine keeping it open. Jarvis turns the tv on, starting the movie, and already Bucky's breath shifts to the back of his throat, deepening as he drifts off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy jeez I'm sorry about the huge delay. I want you all to know that your comments have meant SO MUCH to me. Honestly I find it hard to pick up stories I've put down for a while but all the awesome encouragement and comments I've gotten really made me want to come back to it. Well, that and I can't just leave Bucky and Matt and Steve hanging.
> 
> So I'm not really familiar with movies that would be safe for people with PTSD. checking on forums, I saw the Princess Bride recommended, but I also recall the movie having some intense parts. Needless to say, when Wesley is attacked by the RoUS or when Inigo kills the six-fingered man, Bucky hides his face in Matt's side and covers his ears. What other movies would be safe? Any suggestions?


	12. Dare I Say

It's peaceful in Hell's Kitchen. A would-be carjacker is all Matt encounters, not what he expected after spending several days away. He stands on the roof of the building across from Foggy's, intently ignoring to his friend's distant snores in an effort to hear someone in need. Nothing. It's unsettling, the world holding it's breath, and he finds himself holding his, too.

The temperature begins to rise and the sounds of the city shift, the early-morning risers begin stirring in their beds, and Matt returns home. His town is safe, but he can't shake the feeling that something is wrong.

Steve is still awake in the living room when Matt walks in, peeling his mask off.

"He's sleeping," Steve murmurs. He shuts his sketch pad, tucks it beneath his arm as he rises and follows Matt into the kitchen.

Pouring a glass of water, Matt focuses, hears the familiar sound of Bucky's breathing, a sound that makes him feel safe. Home. "Any accidents?" He hates asking, knowing how humiliating Bucky finds it, but he's not sure what else to say.

"No, no. We watched a movie, I taught him Crazy 8s. He wanted to stay up until you got back." There's more and Matt waits him out. It doesn't take long for Steve to continue. "He was... himself. For a while. He acted and sounded like... like my Bucky. He could remember fragments but then wasn't sure if he was remembering it or if he'd read it at the Smithsonian."

Matt wipes his mouth, leans back against the counter. "He's still your Bucky. No matter how he acts. He's changed, but that doesn't nullify the time you two had together. That still is there, it happened and it's a part of him. He's still your Bucky. He's just afraid. Of everything."

"Not of you."

The accusation is unmistakable. How dare you. How dare you become his hero, his savior. How dare you take him away from me. And behind the chilly anger, that raw and brutal misery. 

"Steve," Matt begins, keeping his voice low and soothing. The problems plaguing Bucky are so readily apparent, it's easy to forget it might not be so obvious in someone else. Without thinking, he closes the distance between them, rests his hand on an arm so dense with muscle it might as well be made of metal too. "Since you woke up, have you... talked to anyone?"

His heartbeat picks up its pace, the tiniest tang of sweat. Creak of muscles tensing. "I'm fine. This isn't about me. Bucky is the one who needs help-"

"And he's getting it. Steve, every time we talk, I can hear so much emotion, it's like you can barely get the words out. It's eating you up." A brief swell of hysteria fills him for a moment. He's giving Captain America, the most mythic of heroes, a pep talk about therapy.

But he's not entirely surprised. Waking up utterly alone in a future that makes no sense, completely displaced, lost, with only his own legend to turn to. Trying to be the paragon everyone believes him to be. So far removed from all of humanity that you might as well be another life form. A sentient tool. And then to find it was all a lie.

Matt squeezes his arm. "Please. Ask Sam to find you a doctor. Promise me."

It's like holding onto a statue, then abruptly Steve is covering his eyes with his hand, swallowing over and over, breath uneven. "We were talking about his sisters- He... He remembered... Then he started crying. I hugged him. I picked him up. He held on so tight. And... I was so happy, god help me, he fell asleep while I was carrying him and I've never been more thankful for this body." Steve leans heavily against the island as if the strength has drained from his legs. He turns, rests his hands flat on the countertop, taking deep gasping breaths. "He called me daddy again when I picked him up and I was happy. Because it meant he wasn't scared. Do you understand? There's something wrong with me."

Matt slides his hand across the other man's back, rubs in soft circles. As the skin warms beneath his palms, Steve's fluttering heart slows down and the palpable misery recedes, leaving them both drained. "You must have missed him so much." Tiny wet splashes, tears hitting the countertop. "I don't think there's anything wrong with being happy that he's comfortable around you. He wants you around, Steve. Look at his toy. He picked that for himself. He needs you."

They continue to stand, silent now, Matt rubbing his back. Steve allowing himself to indulge for once in comfort. Allowing himself a moment of weakness in the shadows of this empty kitchen. It's only a moment longer, though, and then the hero returns. His back straightens, he takes a deep breath and scrubs his face with his hand, and it's not just a conversation between two damaged people anymore. It's not just Steve and Matt anymore.

"Promise you'll talk to Sam," Matt insists, refusing to let the moment go completely. "For Bucky's sake."

He can feel Steve's eyes on his face, feels the intensity of his regard. "I promise."

Matt fills his glass again to cover his discomfort. It's one thing talking to Steve, it's another talking to Captain America. He hopes it's dark enough in the kitchen to cover the blush he feels burning his neck and cheeks.

Rustling, whimpering, and Matt is almost relieved for the distraction when he realizes Bucky is waking up. A nightmare, from the sound of it. He turns to go to him but Steve is already on the move, already rushing to his side. Instead, Matt heads to the linen closet, already detecting the ammonia tang in the air.

He passes them on the way to the room, Bucky's legs and arms wrapped around Steve as he's carried to the bathroom to clean up. For a minute, a touch of envy stirs in Matt, he wishes he could carry Bucky like that, provide that level of comfort. But then Bucky stirs, mutters "Uncle Matt" under his breath, and the jealousy is forgotten.

Clean up is easy. Jarvis had plenty of items delivered to make it easier, including rubber sheets for under the fabric ones and a small closet-sized washer and dryer like the one Matt has at home. By the time Matt has stripped the bed and tossed the sheets in the washer, Bucky is already returning in new pajamas, rubbing his eyes, hand-in-hand with Steve.

"Back in bed," Matt says. It takes a minute before he realizes Bucky is staring at him. At his clothes. He forgot to change.

They'd talked about Matt going patrolling before he left. He had explained why he needed to, why it was important. Explained about his special senses and how he would be safe, and how Steve was going to stay with him to make sure he was safe too. Everything seemed to be fine after, Bucky had appeared to understand.

Matt takes a step towards him then stops, wonders if he looks frightening. When they first met, Bucky had mentioned his outfit reminded him of someone. Someone from Hydra. "You okay, honey?"

Bucky's hugs are always tight, bordering on uncomfortable, but Matt loves them. He hugs back, the soft trill of the arm in his ear. A beautiful sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sort of torn. Half of me wants Steve and Matt to be platonic caregivers, focused solely on Bucky and his health. But the other half is holding a Cap and a Dardevil action figure going "smooch! Smooch!" Thoughts, preferences?


	13. Over the Edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I need to warn all readers, this next section could be potentially triggery. There's a fight scene with a bad guy, I describe Matt's (rather extreme) pain, so if that's potentially upsetting please don't read, I'll be more than happy to provide a quick summary at the start of the next chapter.

It was a trap, he even knew it was one, which makes his falling for it all the more humiliating. Screams in an empty dusty building, nothing more than a recording.

Sounds of heavy footsteps, an attack from behind, Matt turns to meet it but is thrown off by an unexpected hissing coming from the attacker's arms. Despite the unnerving sound, Matt manages to knock away one wild punch, dodges under a backfist, and then is startled by a horrible shrill shrieking. Mechanical, something pneumatic, and utterly unbearable. Matt winces and a jab connects with his solar plexus. No ordinary punch. That shriek again and Matt is throw across the room, unable to draw breath, every nerve in his torso in agony. Broken bones for sure, at the very least.

Laying in a pile of what feels like broken wooden crates, Matt rolls onto his hands and knees, mouth opening and closing like a fish, unable to inhale, his lungs burning. Pneumatic gauntlets, the man has some kind of pneumatic gauntlets.

"Caught myself a blackbird!" New York accent. Faint hint of sibilant consonants. Completely unfamiliar. "Been following you ever since my buddy Winter shacked up with you. Took long enough to set this up and look, you came running straight for it. Big hero." Hands on him, grabbing his shirt and tossing him onto his back, ripping his mask off as he crouches over Matt. A pause, then an ugly bark of a laugh. "You're shitting me. You, you're blind. I don't believe it."

Weak trickles of air into his lungs. Matt grabs at the hand fisted in the collar of his shirt, clawing ineffectually.

"Hear that, blackbird? Sounds like my trap in a trap is working. C'mere."

Sure enough, distant sound of metal doors, running footsteps, voices coming through staticky on earbuds. Familiar voices. Steve. Sam. Even Tony. The cavalry.

Matt feels his strength returning, tries to shove his knee into his attacker's gut but is blocked by armor. Instead, the man rears back, then that horrible hissing sound. Matt only has time to gasp "no-" before the shriek fills his ears, blots out the sound of his friends, and then the pain blots out everything else.

"-hospital-"

"Bruce is outside-"

"Take him. NOW."

Matt knows he's hurt badly. He refuses to take stock, instead tries to focus outwardly. Something cold is holding onto him, Iron Man is carrying him, his thrusters roaring as they fly out of the warehouse. Behind: fighting. Sam yelling. The sound of his wings retracting and extending. Guns shooting. The clang of Steve's shield ricocheting. It fades into the distance, but then again everything does as Matt swims out of consciousness. 

He's in a vehicle of some sort. He feels the motion as they travel.

"-not, uh, not that kind of doctor." Incredibly tranquil voice, full of uncertainty. Matt's limited vision lets him see glasses, a head full of messy curls. He's got a small bottle of some kind, is filling a syringe with it, but the smell of the fluid is unfamiliar to Matt. 

Tony's voice this time. "That biology degree isn't for nothing, Brucie. Just, I don't know, stabilize him until we get him to a hospital. Give me an engine any day. See, this is why I wear armor and not pajamas."

The man with the soft, kind voice snorts, leans over. Matt feels the syringe pierce his inner arm. They hit a bump and he's grateful to pass out.

Hospital smells. Cleansers, antiseptic, plastic, ammonia, alcohol. Matt hears the drip of an IV. Feels the papery hospital gown and sheet covering him. He feels the haziness that comes from strong pain medication, but the incredible pain of his abdomen transcends whatever they've given him.

A huge hand pushes his hair out of his face. Familiar smells, familiar heartbeat. Comforting. Matt holds perfectly still, luxuriating in breathing freely, lungs able to fill to capacity, air entering and exiting without complication or obstruction.

"Steve," he exhales. "Tell me you didn't bring Bucky," He feels frozen, wishes he had about a hundred more blankets.

"He's home. He knows a little of what happened, he knows you're safe now. Sam and Tony and Bruce are with him." Steve stops petting his hair, sits down in a plastic chair nearby. Matt misses the reassuring bulk, feels oddly nervous even though he knows Steve is only a step or two away.

Matt realizes he's grinding his teeth to keep them from chattering. "Who was-?" He's too groggy, in too much pain, to bother finishing the sentence.

"Brock Rumlow. He..." The sound of Steve's voice suggests he's uncomfortable even saying the name. "He was Bucky's... handler... before. He worked for Pierce."

The commander, he guesses. 

Abruptly Steve gets to his feet, opens a cabinet and starts rummaging through what sounds like fabric. "He's in custody. I was able to rip the bomb off of him and cover it with my shield." He unfolds two blankets and drapes them over Matt, tucking them in around his arms. ". He wanted to blow us both up and he was using you to get to me. I'm so sorry, Matt."

"'S fine." Matt has no time for Steve's endless capacity for guilt, not right now. He's worried. Worried for Bucky and Steve and for the entire strange group he's starting to regard as a kind of surrogate family.

Steve settles back in his chair, it creaks under his considerable weight. "Your stomach got ripped. Some broken ribs, too. They had to perform surgery, but Tony's fixing up a place you can recover in at the Tower. We all agreed Bucky would be inconsolable if you had to stay here a week."

Finally warming up, Matt smiles weakly. He has no idea how he's ever going to repay Tony for god knows how much money he's been shelling out on his behalf.

The doctors and nurses are extremely reluctant to let him check out, even as they exclaim over the way he's doing better than they anticipated. Matt brushes them off--mutters of always been a fast healer, runs in the family--and wonders if he should ask Steve to contact Claire. He can't decide if she would get a kick out of coming to Tony Stark's personal tower or if she'd find it discomforting to know they are aware of her now, pulling her further into this very dangerous world.

An ambulance awaits Matt, but not just any ambulance. It's some sort of special, tricked-out one, Matt can tell from the shocked sniff Steve gives and the way the people around them stop and stare.

Matt leans over to Steve as he helps him into the back of it. "What-"

"Tony," he interrupts, and it's explanation enough.

Inside the back of the ambulance, curly hair, hunched posture, measured breathing. Bruce, the man with the degree in biology. And, of course, a member of the Avengers. Everyone knows about Bruce Banner.

Matt settles back on the overly plush stretcher, lets himself be strapped in. "Thank you for helping me before, Dr. Banner."

"Oh-!" He sounds surprised at being addressed directly. "I, really, I didn't do much. Just the first aid kit. I'm happy to hear you'll make a full recovery." Matt can hear his hands fidgeting, the way he rubs his forearm, the brush of his palm against skin and hair.

The drive back to the Tower is quiet, subdued. Steve explains how he knows Rumlow, how they worked for S.H.I.E.L.D together on the same team and what Brock was actually doing, how the files the Black Widow released made it clear he was Bucky's handler, his hospital stay for the extensive burns after the helicarriers fell. It's delivered in clipped, dry tones, carefully devoid of emotion, and then Steve falls silent, lost in his head.

The quiet ride makes Matt a little nervous. He keeps extending his senses, listening for the attack he feels certain is coming. Nothing. Rumlow is in custody. They arrive safely, pulling into a private parking deck. Before they can even park Matt hears running footsteps, knows that tread, that uneven distribution of weight, and as Steve opens the doors Matt is treated to the cadence of Bucky's arm. His mind supplies the shriek of pneumatics, but Bucky tries to get in as Steve tries to climb out and there's a brief moment of chaos, distracting him completely.

His new hospital room is on the floor above their apartment. It smells sterile and, if it wasn't for the familiar scent of the laundry detergent they all use here, it would almost be daunting. To make matters worse, apparently Matt has his own rotating team of nurses to help make sure he takes his medications, does his exercises, changes the compression stocking. Matt wants to tell them he's been hurt worse and come through fine, but it occurs to him that Tony enjoys overdoing things almost as much as he enjoys displays of his considerable wealth.

Settled in bed, Matt helps Bucky climb carefully in with him, curling up by his side. There's a sort of mini living room set up nearby for guests, Steve drags a squat blocky armchair over.

It's just the three of them for the moment. The two both wait for Bucky to gather his thoughts, knowing he's going to have a lot of questions.

"Daddy told me it was the commander that hurt you." Bucky squirms, ducks his head down until it's beneath Matt's chin. "He wanted to kill you both. And himself."

Matt isn't sure how to respond.

"Bucky? What do you remember about Rumlow?" Steve asks.

Bucky sniffles, his voice has a slight catch to it. "He was nice. He made me pancakes once. And he. He rubbed my back when I felt sick." Matt is shocked by this, can hear from Steve's response that he is too. But that would mean he-

"He knew," Steve whispers, horrified. "He knew you're- He let Pierce-"

Matt interrupts before the other man can work himself up any further, at least out loud. He never knew Rumlow before, obviously, but he's not surprised the man would be okay letting Bucky be abused. So the question is, why would Steve react so strongly. "What else, honey?"

"He brushed my hair sometimes. I think he cut it once but that made da-... That made P-pierce mad." He whimpers, probably upset from the slip-up. Or upset from remembering his time with his Hydra.

"Okay," Matt murmurs, wrapping his arm around Bucky, pulling him close. "Okay, you did a good job, I'm sorry you had to talk about it." Steve gets up, holds Bucky's metal hand while rubbing his back. After a bit the tears subside and he relaxes.

Steve shifts, about to sit down again, but Bucky won't let go of his hand, Matt can hear the way the smaller plates of his fingers whir as they tighten their grip. Instead, Steve leans against the bed awkwardly, resting his other arm in different positions while practically squatting, trying to find a comfortable position, and Matt can't help himself. A tiny laugh bursts out from behind his lips.

He can feel the other two staring at him, shocked, and then Bucky laughs under his breath. Matt can feel the slight temperature rise as blood rushes to Steve's face in a blush.

"Excuse me, gentlemen?" From the smell in the doorway, a nurse. "It's time for Mr. Murdock to take his medications."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm sticking with the past Lauralot gave Bucky and Rumlow, though in this and the next chapter you'll see some minor deviations. But overall, the chapter when Bucky is little during a mission is definitely still part of their history.
> 
> Also this fic is going to stay platonic. I like the feeling of it being a found family. If I feel some kind of overwhelming urge to write an awkward smooching scene between Matt and Steve, I'll probably post it as a separate fic and mention it in the notes here. 
> 
> I can absolutely see Chris Evans very awkwardly trying to figure out how to get comfortable on the edge of a hospital bed without dislodging anyone. The mental image made me laugh a little.


	14. Cut Me Loose

Bucky finds Matt on one of his walks. Part of recovery involves moving around, so Matt goes to his apartment and back, sometimes switching out one of his books for another one, sometimes just to stand in an environment that doesn't keep the memory of his encounter with Crossbones simmering in the back of his mind. The rest of the time, Matt tends to doze off, still heavily medicated for the pain, so he encouraged Bucky to explore the Tower a little more. He mostly asks Jarvis to lead him to Steve and spends hours with him, playing and exercising and watching movies, doctor's visits, meals, naps. Matt wishes he could join them, but even with the Murdock healing rate, even with regular meditation, he knows he needs to stay put.

Sometimes, when Bucky is particularly brave, he might venture out of his comfort zone and visit Bruce or Tony. Sam, on the other hand, has his own home, his own life, away from the Tower, though he and Bucky text at least once a day.

Today is one of the braver days, Matt can smell the sparkling ozone of electronics clinging to his hair and clothes.

"Tony's working on something for you!" Bucky announces, clearly thrilled. "He made me promise not to spoil the surprise but it's really, really good." His flesh hand twines with Matt's, a smear of oil on the back of it. "He's also making something for me," he says, voice going quiet and shy but bursting with just as much enthusiasm. "Steve is drawing all the Avengers like my Cap tsum tsum and Tony is making a machine to sew them. I got to help today. I colored some of the drawings and then I handed Tony parts."

Matt grins, infected with excitement. "He can't just use a regular sewing machine?"

"He said what's the point of being a genius if he can't invent something to do it for him."

Sounds about right.

Matt turns the knob of their apartment door. They don't bother locking it anymore, not unless Bucky is having a really bad time and needs to feel secure. But it's still nice not having to listen to the doors swishing open. "I have to call my friend Foggy today. You remember him at the office?"

"Uh-huh. He talked really fast."

Snorting, Matt tries to remember where he last plugged his new Starktech phone in to charge. It happened before Crossbones, so it's been practically an eternity. "Foggy does talk fast." He feels bad for not contacting his best friend sooner; in the rush of moving in and figuring out Bucky's new health regimen, and now dealing with his injuries, he hasn't let him know how he's doing. Or even where he is. Matt felt reluctant to reveal he's living in a billionaire's superhero apartments. Sort of renders his whole secret identity thing moot.

Bucky slides away, returns before Matt even makes it to the bedroom, pressing his phone into his hand.

"Thanks, Buck." He loops his arm around the other man's shoulders in a loose hug, grateful to also be able to lean on him for a moment. Bucky supports his weight easily, patiently. He likes to help out, be Matt's nursemaid.

The phone announces: five texts, nine phone calls, and three voicemails, all from Foggy. A couple of calls from clients, no one whose case was particularly pressing. Foggy, though. The voicemails first. Two trying to sound casual, just checking up on you buddy. The last one is full of anger and hurt and concern. Matt doesn't even have to listen to the texts, though he will. He knows he's going to have to have a long phone conversation with Foggy tonight. Maybe invite him over. Stop hiding secrets from him.

The decision made, a weight lifts off of his chest, and Matt knows it's the right choice.

The posh voice of Jarvis interrupts his thoughts. "Mr. Murdock and Sergeant Barnes, Captain Rogers is currently looking for you both, sirs. Shall I let him know where to find you?"

"Tell him we'll be in the sick room in a couple minutes."

"Certainly, sir."

It'd taken a full day of living here before Matt realized Jarvis is not some kind of security man watching over a bank of monitors but rather a living artificial intelligence. Somehow it's more unnerving, knowing this consciousness is everywhere at all times, omnipresent, watching. As a Catholic, God was bad enough, he'd made peace with that as a child. This was man-made and as such potentially fallible. Part of the reason he was so pleased to get those plain wooden doors with their old-fashioned locks.

Bucky darts into his room, comes back with a few picture books in his hand. He then grabs Matt's arm, drapes it over his shoulder so he can support him on the way back. In the recovery room, Steve is already there by one of the windows, apparently lost in thought by the way he jumps when they enter the room. As Matt climbs into the bed and Bucky curls up on the armchair next to him, Steve walks over, his steps unusually plodding.

"Hey, Buck, I think Bruce wanted to see you. He got some kind of fancy Italian cake, thought you might like a little."

Something that rich is practically a guaranteed stomach ache, but Bucky perks up. He has a sweet tooth. He doesn't budge, though, the swirling shape of him is turned to face Steve and Matt can see the way his posture changes. He sets his book down, sits up straighter, feet on the ground. The tension boiling off of Steve has triggered a change in Bucky. The Russian soldier possibly, though there's still something languid about him.

"No good, huh?" Steve laughs, self-deprecating. 

"What's wrong?" Bucky asks, voice is tight with tension. 

Resting his hands on his hips, Steve sighs. "I wanted to talk to Matt about it first. I'm not sure you should-"

Bucky's heart revs up, Matt hears a familiar trill as he clenches his fists. "I am still an adult. I can't help how I act, sometimes, but I'm still... I'm still older than Matt by, what, fifty years?"

Matt's eyebrows raise at the attempt at a joke. This is definitely not the soldier. This is James Buchanan Barnes, in a manner of speaking, not someone that makes a lot of appearances.

"I don't want you to get upset."

"It's my decision." He slides down in the seat and shoves his hands in his pockets, muffled click of teeth as he chews on his lip.

Steve sighs, folds his arms, shifts his weight as he gathers his thoughts. "I got a call from the lawyer in charge of prosecuting Rumlow-"

"Crossbones." Matt interrupts. The distinction is important, he thinks. Rumlow was a man Steve once trusted with his life. A man that didn't actually exist. He chose the name Crossbones and frankly Matt thinks a villainous pseudonym suits him. 

"She said that he's willing to plead guilty and talk about what S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra were up to when he was in it. That's a lot of intel. Names, locations. But he'll only talk if he gets to see me... and Bucky."

Matt frowns. "That's a terrible idea. They don't need him to plead, this case is open and close. A child could convict him."

"It's not that, it's the information. Hydra cells are still all over the country, the world. We need to wipe them out."

"You don't owe the world a thing! Not if it means you have to talk to the man that tried to kill you."

Steve scoffs at that. "A lot of people have tried to kill me, I fought in the front lines-"

"This is a little more personal!" Matt shakes his head, blown away. How could Steve even be seriously considering this. "He tried to murder you! He's an evil goon and I don't care how many secret bases he can draw a map to, your mental health-"

"I already agreed." The room is silent, everyone is still as they try to absorb that.

Matt's face flushes in anger. "You have no right. You have no right to drag Bucky-"

"No! No, I said I'd go without Bucky! There's no way-"

Abruptly, without a sound, Bucky gets to his feet and begins to pace, long-legged strides that carry him across the large room with ease. "I want to go." Both Matt and Steve try to talk, but Bucky raises his voice, angry, steely. "I'm going. You can't stop me. I'm not your prisoner. The commander wants to see me and I... I want to see him."

Matt is stunned, leans back against the headboard of the bed. He remembers what Bucky told them, that Rumlow sometimes treated him kindly, that he took care of him when he became a child during a mission once, but he also willingly left Bucky with Pierce, even after he knew the kind of torture the man was inflicting on him. And Crossbones might know the words used to control Bucky. 

"Buck," Steve begins, voice soft and sad. "You don't know what-" He stops, tries again. "You should talk to Dr. Worth about it first-"

Bucky stops pacing, instead stands, chest out, head high, posture of defiance. Bravery, maybe. Recklessness more likely. "If you don't take me with you, I'll just go on my own. I'm... I'm me, right now, okay? Let me be this. Let me make this decision, damn you!" He inhales sharply and his shoulders drop as a high-pitched whine forces it's way out of him. He's fighting with himself, Matt can feel it. Does he really hate being a child so much? Without another word, Bucky turns on his heel and walks out, followed by the sibilant whisper of his fingers on his cheeks as he angrily wipes his tears away.


	15. No More Room to Pretend

"You came. Good to see you, buddy."

Rumlow's voice comes through an intercom next to the enormous glass window. He sounds mellow. The guard escorting them had explained Brock's severe burns and his medication, added that apparently the man had been going without anything to dull his pain after he got out of the hospital. Matt isn't sympathetic.

The rattle of metal links, tiny shuffling steps. He's in chains and shackles, gets bolted to the table in the other room. "And look at that, blackbird came, too. You're building a real aviary, huh." His voice is oily, slides in Matt's ear and down his spine, makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He knows Rumlow can see them, has to stop himself from taking Steve's hand for comfort. Matt hadn't considered that Brock might notice him, tries to remind himself that he's absolutely safe here. There will be no pneumatic shriek.

"Hey? Cap? Remember your birthday last year?" Beside him, Steve tenses, stands straighter, but Rumlow barrels on, either unaware or not caring. Matt tries to focus but he's distracted by the reaction the words have on Steve. Something about a cake, singing, fireworks. Steve is breathing so fast it's almost whistling out his nose, his teeth creak from the force of his clenched jaw. When Rumlow says the unfamiliar names, he punctuates each one by yanking on his chains.

"And then Anders turns to Murphy, you remember Murphy? You always seemed fond of him. Shoveled that tofu crap down and complimented it. So she turns to Murphy and says even Rollins..." His voice cracks on the last name and he trails off.

It seems like maybe the deluge of words is over, he's run out, but suddenly the man lets out a low roar, slamming his fists on the table. Steve's adrenaline spikes and Matt takes a step back, heart in his throat. One of the guards in the room yells for him to settle down and Rumlow subsides, panting.

When Brock speaks again, he sounds like he's pulling the words from the bottom of a swamp, voice wet and heavy and syrupy-slow. "Their families buried what pieces they could find. I was chained to the hospital bed, couldn't go. Did you? You go, big guy? Was Jack's funeral nice? Did you go up and say a few words?"

"I went," Steve finally speaks. His words are dark, his presence a terrifying storm cloud full of thunder and violence. "I went to their funerals."

Rumlow laughs and it sounds like sobbing. "Of course you did! A beacon of fuckin' virtue. When are they gonna canonize you anyway?" He takes a deep breath, lets it go. "Where's Winter?"

The punch to the window is fast, Matt didn't even sense it coming. The bulletproof glass doesn't crack and Steve is immediately back at parade rest, body crackling with tension.

It makes a moment before Matt realizes he has backed away, hands up defensively.

The sound of the guards nervously fingering their weapons makes it through the speakers. "Everything okay, Captain Rogers?"

"It's fine," he grits out.

Rumlow's heart is racing too, the chair creaks as he leans forward. "Sensitive subject, huh? Too fuckin' bad. That was part of the agreement. Where is he?"

"His name is Bucky," Matt snaps, surprising himself.

"Oh, of course. You all don't wanna be reminded. Don't wanna hear the name Pierce gave him, huh? He tell you about when Rollins and I saw him change and we had to-"

"You sent him back!" Steve snarls. "You knew and you sent him back! You saw he was a child!"

"What the hell were we supposed to do?! Give him a lunchbox and send him on his way?! Grab him and take off?! Then Pierce sends his merry men after us. Sends you! Hey, lemme ask you something. Who you think bore the brunt of Pierce's attention when Winter was in the freezer? Which team got that honor, you think? Working with a god damn superhero, you think we'd maybe get saved, huh. Not get a fucking building dropped on us."

Steve turns away, covers his mouth with his hand.

"So." Rumlow tilts his head back, voice brittle. "Where is Winter."

Steve's heart is fluttering, he's shaking. Blinking so rapidly it can only be from tears. Matt forgets about the others present, forgets his anxiety, goes to Steve and puts a hand on his arm, gently trying to pull him away. "We're done here," Matt says, insistent. "No more."

"No!" Rumlow tries to rise, is trapped by the chains. "You don't get to say it's over, blackbird, that's between me and Stevie and Winter. And I say it ain't over!"

Matt moves to stand before Steve, between him and the window. He knows it's ridiculous, Rumlow can't hurt them and this is Captain America, but he can't help himself. Steve carries enough burdens. He doesn't need the one this man is trying to foist on him.

The door click open behind them and Matt's heart drops.

The mental and emotion armor Steve built up for this around himself is cracking even more rapidly. "Oh, Bucky, no," he whispers.

"I can hear you two yelling from down the hall," Bucky says, hesitating briefly by the door as it swings shut. "You want the whole prison knowing our business?" It's Bucky, the adult one.

Bucky had spent hours alone at home this morning, asked Steve and Matt to avoid talking to him as much as possible on the ride over. He wanted to fight against his childlike nature alone, said it was too easy to give in to it around them. Last night when Bucky came upstairs to say goodnight, he'd crawled into the bed and Matt had assumed it was his little Bucky, gathered him up in a hug, rested his chin on his soft dark hair. After a few moments, their breaths syncing and slowing, Bucky slipped out from his arms and left without uttering a word. Matt only realized then that it had been the grown-up version.

"Winter." Brock relaxes into his chair. His pulse slows, curiously, and he takes a deep breath. "Hey, kiddo. You... You doing okay? You look good, they taking care of you?" The concern in his voice sounds legitimate, there's a sharpness to the questions. 

Bucky brushes past Steve and Matt, turning to look in their direction but otherwise not acknowledging them. He touches a hand, his flesh hand, to the cold glass. "Hi, commander. They're being good to me. I'm seeing a lot of doctors now."

Finally Matt gives in, grabs Steve's hand in his and squeezes hard. When the other man squeezes back, Matt winces but doesn't pull away. It was painful, being ignored, but he knows in his heart Bucky didn't intend to hurt them. This is a very careful, delicate dance, one they're all feeling their way through because they don't know the steps.

"Are you doing okay?" Bucky asks quietly. Rumlow doesn't answer. Both men are silent, staring at each other through the thick glass, and Matt wonders what nonverbal communication is passing between them.

Brock shakes his head. "You're not the kid."

"No. Not today."

The next sentence Rumlow utters is full of emotion, too many to sort through. "I'm glad you're safe." The things packed into his words, so many sentiments, all the feelings Brock will never be able to bring himself to say. I'm sorry. I was afraid. I never meant. I always regretted. I couldn't. It hurts. All of it hurts, and it will never stop hurting.

When he has himself under control again, Rumlow sucks his teeth, rubs his face. "Go on, go home. Come back without your guardian angels sometime."

Again the two stare at each other, minutes pass and then Bucky turns, heads to the door.

In the enormous limo-like SUV Tony insisted they take, Matt and Bucky sit with Steve across from them. Bucky is curled against Matt, legs draped across his lap as he cries into his shoulder. Matt rubs his back, rocking them. The sob are almost hysterical, Bucky can't even talk around them to explain what's wrong. He tried so hard to hold it back, tilted his head back and forced his eyes to stay open, trying to stop the tears that kept coming, but when Matt finally asked if he wanted to speak to his therapist, he'd fallen apart. Across the way, Steve's own emotions are mounting. He finally kneels on the floor and gathers both of them in his enormous arms, resting his head on Bucky's arm. They stay that way, the circle of their unusual family enclosed and safe, until they arrive back at the Tower.


	16. Further Down

When they return from the disastrous visit at the prison, the three troop silently to Steve's floor. Once the doors to the elevator slide shut and they start ascending, Steve scoops Bucky up, settling him on his hip. Matt's abdomen is aching horribly--he wonders if he's managed to make his injuries worse--so he has to lean on the wall to keep from doubling over. He almost wishes he could be picked up, too, because every jarring step is agony.

Steve's apartment is the most restful one in the building. Quiet, filled with books and fake-leather furniture and art supplies. Matt deposits himself into the overstuffed corduroy armchair, stretching out his legs as he toes his sneakers off. Steve, Bucky still on his hip and dozing fitfully, turns his record player on and the volume down so Billie Holiday's soothing voice settles over them like a glitter in a snow globe. Matt likes that, imagines all the people he loves contained in a perfect glass sphere, safe.

"Hungry?" Steve murmurs, trying not to wake the man on his hip.

Matt just shakes his head. He's too tired and he wouldn't care even if he wasn't. But he knows those two and their metabolisms, knows Steve at least is probably starving. "Need help?"

Gently, Steve settles Bucky on the couch, drapes an afghan over him and gives him a pillow to cuddle with since his Cap stuffie is on Matt's floor. "I'm okay," he says as he heads to the kitchen, and Matt almost laughs at the absurdity of that statement in light of today's events.

Bucky's breathing changes, speeds up slightly, indicating he's awake.

"Hi, honey," Matt says, sitting up, smiling. "You want something to eat? Steve's fixing... something." He sniffs, can smell cinnamon, hears the microwave beeping. When Bucky doesn't reply, just stays curled up around his pillow, Matt becomes worried. "What's wrong, Buck? Do you want me to call your therapists?" Honestly he should have done it as soon as they got in the car, but he'd been so distracted.

Bucky makes a negative noise in the back of his throat.

Well, at least he's responding. Matt tries to make a mental note to call them later anyway. "What's wrong? Want your Cap stuffie?" No response to that one. He's torn between wanting to go get it anyway and dreading the pain that walk would bring.

The microwave beeps again and Steve opens it, pulls out what sounds like two bowls, what smells like oatmeal. He brings them into the living room, they bang against the wooden coffee table, huge and heavy. "You should eat something, you skipped breakfast." Bucky had been afraid he would throw up when he saw Rumlow.

Steve sits on the floor, he prefers eating like that in here, jokes that it's closer to the food. Bucky slides off of the couch to lean against him. Even, steady heartbeat, slow breaths, so not crying. Probably, hopefully, just drained. 

After a few minutes, Matt notices Bucky isn't eating. Wincing in pain, he slips onto the floor next to him. "You need some help?" There's been two other occasions when Bucky couldn't or wouldn't feed himself, it threw Matt for a loop, he had to keep one hand on the other man's face to know exactly where to put the spoon, but he didn't mind.

Bucky stirs, holds his arms out. "Hug, please?" This time Matt hides his flinch of pain as he scoots over next to the pair. He doesn't want to crowd them but is forced to, Bucky tugs on his sleeve until he presses in. Apparently he wants to be squeezed, specifically between them.

Matt feels for the spoon, hefts it to make sure there's oatmeal on it, wipes the bottom on the rim and moves it close. When Bucky finally parts his lips, the air escaping gives Matt a better clue where his mouth is, lets him get the spoon in with what he assumes is no mess.

Or not, because Steve quickly asks, "want me to?" Whoops.

Bucky eats half the bowl before he turns and hides in face in Matt's shoulder, burrowing a little until he's practically under his armpit.

"Hey, Buck, I have an idea!" Steve says. Matt lifts his face, gives the fiery shape before him a curious look at the enthusiasm in his voice. "What if we make a blanket fort? I read about it online. We can make a huge tent and I'll read to you and we can even have dinner in it. That sound good?"

From under Matt's arm, buried in his hoodie, Bucky is very muffled but Matt's fairly sure he agrees.

When Steve stands up, Bucky gives a small whine, so Matt hugs him tight against his chest, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head. It's the first time he's kissed him, the realization gives him pause, but it felt so natural. And Bucky doesn't seem to be upset by it or to even notice, really, instead squirming until his face is in the crook of Matt's neck. His nose is ice cold and he exhales hard, chilly air tickling the fine hairs there.

Steve returns with an armful of blankets. He's been collecting them, he confessed to Matt that he hates the cold, is terrified of it. Spent days after being revived just wrapped in every blanket, every comforter, every sheet he could find in the Tower. Worn sweater over sweater to meetings, slept every night on the floor by the vents with the heat cranked up. Apparently Tony had noticed, because the packages started arriving, boxes of nothing but the thickest, softest blankets Steve had ever felt in his life.

Tossing the mound of fabric on the couch, he announces, "I've got more, too, if we need it." Matt touches them, feels the fleecy softness, and he can't resist grabbing the top one and pulling it around himself and Bucky.

This time Steve's carrying a box, sounds plastic, lots of little objects rattling around inside. Metal, wood, more plastic. "Okay, pumpkin. Want to help?"

Construction is slow but, as they work, the grogginess weighing Bucky down starts to lift. Steve switches the music to Benny Goodman, horns and clarinets, upbeat.

As Bucky uses clothes pins to secure the sheet Matt is holding to the back of a chair, he announces merrily, "I like this song!"

Steve drops his side of the sheet and Bucky huffs. "Yeah," Steve says, voice low and thick but happy. "Yeah, you always did like this one. You used to make your sister Rebecca dance with you."

Matt listens close, worried Bucky might get upset, but his heart is even and strong.

When they're done, about half of the living room is a fort, the furniture all pushed together and draped in blankets. It's a blinding mess to Matt, all muffled and shapeless, so he grabs Bucky's shoulder and stays close as they shuffle inside. There's pillows and cushions from the couch on top of more blankets; Bucky takes a minute to arrange it to his liking, creating a kind of nest, then snuggles up in the middle, pulling a couple more blankets over top.

As Matt curls up beside him, praying he doesn't knock one of the walls down, he hears Bucky sniffing the blankets. "Smells like daddy," he declares. He turns, grabs the hood of Matt's sweater, sniffs it too. "We all smell like daddy."

"We all use the same soap," Matt explains. "Bet Tony smells like Steve, too. And Bruce."

"I like Bruce," Bucky murmurs shyly, covering his mouth with his hand. "He's nice. He reads me stories from other countries."

Matt smiles. "I like Bruce, too, kiddo."

Steve crawls into the fort and starts laughing. "Okay, maybe we didn't make it big enough." He has to push in tight, but Bucky just sighs contentedly between them, hugging an armful of what feels like cashmere.

Steve slides down until he's on his back, laying an arm out so Bucky can lay on his chest. Swallowing a laugh of his own, Matt lays on Steve's bicep, big enough to be a comfortable pillow. No wonder it's too cramped in here, the man is twice the size of either of them.

"I brought some storybooks. Which one first, Buck? We've got, hmm, Velveteen Rabbit-"

"No!" Matt wonders who the hell thought that was appropriate for Bucky. Sad, broken toys made real thanks to the love of their owner, sure that's a great message to send to him. He's going to have to talk to Steve about his taste in children's literature. 

"Dr. Seuss, Dr. Doolittle--jeez with the doctors--Snow White, Winnie the Pooh-"

"Sleeping Beauty."

Matt knows that's a favorite and his heart breaks every time he remembers why. It was hard but he found a Braille version, bought if from a library when he couldn't find one at in bookstores. Steve opens the picture book one-handed, resting it on his stomach, and starts reading.

Cold wetness wakes Matt up. It's stuffy in their fort and Matt feels stiff from sleeping on the floor. Stretching out, he shifts and realizes the blankets under him are wet. Ammonia stings his nose as he wakes up further. And beside him Bucky is shivering and silently crying.

"Oh, Bucky," Matt murmurs, wondering if Steve's still asleep. His breath is even and deep, body perfectly still and limp, so that's a yes. Bucky gasps, high-pitched, trying so hard to be quiet. "Oh, honey, shh, it's okay." He gathers Bucky up in his arms, hugging him as hard as his injuries will allow, kissing his forehead. "It's okay, we'll clean it up. Don't worry. No one's mad." They must have been asleep for a long time. Naps are fine, it's only when it extends to hours that precautions need to be taken. No one expected to be asleep for that long, though. 

Steve grunts, rolls onto his side and tosses an arm over the two, pulling them both close, making Matt think of teddy bears. "Whaswrong?" he asks, bleary.

"We had a little accident," Matt murmurs, stroking Bucky's sweaty hair back from his face. Somehow Bucky's managed to get his arms under Matt's sweater and is starting to squeeze too hard, his metal arm singing. He's already so upset, Matt doesn't want to make it worse by asking him to let go. "Okay, it's okay, Buck, we gotta get up so we can clean."

Steve goes first, guides Matt out then Bucky, gathering him up and carrying him. The three march to the bathroom where Steve deposits him onto the closed toilet. He's shivering and breathing fast and hard, nearly hyperventilating, so Matt hugs him hard, rubbing his back.

Kneeling in front of Bucky, Steve takes his hand, the metal one, in his own. "You're not in trouble, pumpkin. It's my fault, I didn't set down a special sheet for you. This'll be easy to clean, I won't even have to take the fort down, okay?" He squeezes Bucky's hand then heads to his bedroom to change. Matt hears the rasp as he opens his wooden dresser.

He's wet but Bucky must be soaking. "You want a bath, honey?" Tiny gasps are the only response. "Bucky, it's okay, I promise. Your daddy will clean it up, you'll take a bath, I'll get you some nice clean clothes. I'll get your Cap stuffie, too."

"I'm so sorry," Bucky whimpers, breath catching. He can barely get the words out. "I'm s-s-sorry, Uncle Matt!"

"It's been such a rough day for you. I'm the one that should be sorry. And then your daddy and I made it worse because we weren't thinking. You didn't do a single thing wrong, Buckaroo. In fact, you were so brave earlier-" He tries not to grimace, thinking about the prison. That nasty slick voice. "You're going to take a nice cozy bath and when you get out everything will be all better. I'll get your favorite pajamas and Cap and we'll all have dinner."

He wipes off Bucky's soggy cheeks, then reaches over, slides his hand over the tub until he finds the knob. When it runs hot, he flicks the little metal lever that closes the drain. If Steve's tub is anything like his, different colored and scented soaps line the rim so Bucky can decide what he wants to use.

As the tub fills, Matt strokes Bucky's hair away from his face, waiting for him to calm down. Bucky is always shy about bath time, prefers to do it himself because of Pierce and his sick games. He doesn't like being seen undressed, either, even if the person doing the "seeing" is blind, as Matt accidentally discovered.

When Bucky's shaking finally stops, Matt gives him one more big hug before pulling away. "If you need me, just ask Jarvis and I'll come running. And Steve is still here, too."

"Okay," Bucky whispers, his nose clogged enough to distort the words.

Steve is in the hall, carrying a new set of clean blankets into the living room. Matt follows, pulling him aside once they're out of earshot of the bathroom.

"I think it's time we talked to him about... you know." He hates the word diaper, it sends Bucky into stubborn hysterics.

Steve sighs. "I know, he's just so sensitive about it. But listen, I had an idea. Tony's sewing those stuffed animals for Bucky, he made that machine? I wonder if he could, I don't know, maybe make some improvements to the, uh, adult undergarments you buy in stores? Maybe make them more like underwear instead?"

Blinking in surprise, momentarily speechless, Matt grins. "That's a great idea. But... when you ask Tony, avoid saying 'adult undergarment.' He's going to have about a thousand ways to torture you before you even finish the sentence"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been terrible about replying to comments, I'm so sorry! I'm going to try to keep up with it better! I really really appreciate them so much, it's true that comments definitely ramp up author enthusiasm. They make me want to write a new chapter every day! Thank you all so much for sticking with me still! I wish I could give you all a hug!!
> 
> The picture books listed all existed in the 1920s. Bucky was born in 1917. Snow White the Disney movie wasn't put out until 1937, but Bucky currently is a huge fan of Disney and I think Steve would recognize the movie. He was in art school at the time, I feel like he would have dragged Bucky to see it.
> 
> The Sleeping Beauty picture book isn't a Disney one, though. Steve likes Disney movies, especially the older ones, but the modern commercialization of them bugs him. So he tends to choose non-Disney books when he can, basing it on if the art is beautiful or not. Princess stories make Steve pretty sad, though. Because he wants to save them all. Because he couldn't save his prince for so many years. 
> 
> The velveteen rabbit was published in 1922. Steve and Bucky would have been four and five respectively. Most likely they would have heard it, so without thinking Steve bought it because of nostalgia. 
> 
> There's a great infographic on forts here https://www.buzzfeed.com/donnad/5-steps-to-building-your-own-epic-blanket-fort?utm_term=.soQox9Z4L I'm picturing their fort as being very similar to the third one after the infographic, only with better lighting.


	17. Where the Hope Drains Out

Matt shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and puts on his best, most innocent smile. Foggy has already arrived, according to Jarvis, and Matt is trying to get mentally prepared for the well-deserved upbraiding of a lifetime.

When Matt got ahold of Foggy on the phone, he'd promised to explain everything to him over dinner here. He had not explained where exactly here is, though, figuring that surprise would stave off at least some of Foggy's anger.

Dinner is going to be casual, just the two of them on his floor, Bucky with Steve on his own floor. He didn't want Foggy to meet Bucky officially until he knew the situation, wanted to prepare him so he didn't accidentally say something upsetting. Bucky knows perfectly well that people might not react so well to his child side, but there's no reason to bring that into his home, force him to confront that fact when he's just starting his recovery.

Multiple voices are coming from the kitchen and Matt pauses, ready to defend, before he even has a chance to register who is speaking.

"Actually if you have a couple recommendations, some names? I need an objective third party on the stand in that case-" Foggy, voice tight with shy anxiety.

"Sure thing, I know a guy, I'll have his guy call your guy. Well, I guess you are your own guy. And honestly Richards isn't the type to have a guy either. Barbarians. Jarvis, email Reed a copy of the schematics-" Tony, just being Tony.

Rounding the corner, Matt delivers his sweetest smile, wondering if Foggy's going to deck him and, if he does, if he should let him.

"Oh wow, hello, Matthew Iscariot, it's an honor to finally meet you!"

The sarcasm covers a deep hurt that's barely detectable, but Matt's known him long enough to recognize that voice.

"Foggy, I can explain-"

He throws up his hands to stop him. "You know, I can deal with you not showing up to work. I can deal with the abrupt change of address or even not seeing you in person for days on end. I cannot deal--and I can't stress this enough--with you disappearing completely off of the face of the earth. Especially not after you take off from the office being chased by Captain Freaking America." Foggy blinks, a wet click and lashes brushing lashes. "Also? Dude. You live with Tony Freaking Stark."

"And Captain Freaking America," Tony supplies, voice pitched higher as he tries to restrain laughter.

"And Captain Freaking America! Seriously? I have a poster of Captain America in my living room--no offense, Mr. Stark--and you conveniently forgot you live with superheroes?"

Matt stalls for a minute, licks his lips and gives serious thought to barricading himself in his bedroom. With Tony egging Foggy on this night could become very long indeed. "I've had a lot on my plate, I wanted to explain it in person, but things just kept happening." As he speaks, he can hear a little grumble come from Foggy's stomach. "Hey, what do you want to eat? Chinese?"

Foggy's heart slows slightly, mollified by the suggestion of dinner. "Indian."

When Tony claps his hands, both of the men jump slightly. "I know the BEST Indian restaurant in all of New York, seriously, you'll go into a naan-induced coma. Pepper swears it's not authentic but I don't care what it is when it tastes that good." Apparently Tony has invited himself to dinner. Not that Matt minds, the presence of a third party sometimes is enough to hold off the full force of Foggy's anger until it dissipates. "Do we want to invite Steve and Bucky?"

"No, I think they have plans," Matt says quickly.

Orders are placed, it's probably too much food but when Foggy read the menu to him it all sounded delicious.

As they head to the living room for lack of anything better to do, Tony pulls Matt gently aside. "I made the... thing... for Bucky. The one Steve asked me about. I made a trial version to test. Size, leak capacity, whatever."

"Thank you. They're on Steve's floor, if you want to take it there?" By the time Foggy leaves after dinner, Bucky will probably be asleep. And if that's the case, he's going to need the diaper. Bucky has his own bedroom on that floor, including protective sheets, but it still upsets him when he has an accident. A diaper would contain the mess, making the only clean up necessary a bath. The only problem is convincing Bucky of it.

Foggy is milling around the living room, staring at the walls. It hadn't occurred to Matt that there would be artwork, but now he's curious. 

"What is it?" he asks, concerned about Tony's taste.

"Why do you have so many articles about the Devil's of Hell's Kitchen?" He sounds suspicious, likes he's putting two and two together. The injuries, the odd hours, the involvement of known superheroes, and now this. Damn it, Tony.

Matt tries to gather his thoughts but it's all overwhelming. There's so much to explain. Not just his side job, but Bucky and his past, Bucky's current situation, these injuries, Crossbones. "I, ah. Foggy, please, don't be mad. I just didn't want to involve you, it's... I have to do it-"

"No." Foggy's hands are clenching and releasing over and over, his hair swishes as he shakes his head. "No, you do not get to tell me, after- after all this, you don't get to tell me you've been running around, in, in, in nothing but sweats-"

"Thank you!" Tony interjects.

"-beating people up! Is that why you've been gone?! Were you arrested? Were you hurt? Oh my god, all those lame excuses about running into things, I believed you because you're blind!" His heart is galloping so hard it's deafening, almost drowning out his words.

"Okay, I was hurt recently, yes, but usually it's not a big deal-"

"You had a concussion not even two weeks ago! You said you fell down the stairs!"

"Foggy, I'm saving lives, I'm helping people!"

"You're a vigilante! You're hurting people! You're not, you're not judge, jury, and executioner! You're not above the law!"

"Sometimes the law isn't enough!"

"Wait, how the hell are you playing ninja when you're- Are you even blind?!"

Matt physically pulls away from the sting of the accusation. "Foggy, yes, of course I am. I just... My senses are enhanced. And I can sort of see general shapes. It's like everything is on fire. Liquid fire."

"Holy shit." Foggy sits down heavily on the couch, running a hand through his hair. His voice is brimming with emotions, he sounds painfully close to tears. "This whole time you've been lying to me. Lying to my face."

"Okay," Tony interrupts. Footsteps as he starts backing away towards the door. "Hate to interrupt this episode of Jerry Springer but seriously I don't care which one is the father, so why don't I head down to deliver that thing to Steve? I'll let you know when the food is here." His footsteps recede quickly, but Matt couldn't care less how awkward this was. All he cares about is his best friend, devastated and betrayed, sniffling on his couch.

Matt sits next to Foggy, relieved when he doesn't move away. "I am so sorry I didn't tell you sooner, Foggy. I thought I could keep both parts of my life separate. But then I ran across Bucky and it all got tangled up. And you, our firm, even the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, it all got pushed to the side. And I'm sorry."

"Who is Bucky- Oh my god, it's Bucky Barnes. That's why Captain America got involved. Oh my god you slept with Bucky Barnes. No wonder Cap tried to kill you."

"Foggy," Matt sighs, exasperated. "I told you, he was just staying with me. I was sort of... babysitting, I guess. I have to explain about Bucky."

By the time Jarvis announces the food has arrived and Tony is headed back up, Matt has explained most of Bucky's situation. He left out certain aspects, ones he has no right to share, private things that only Bucky should be the one to tell other people. He just hopes he's managed to explain Bucky's little side and the inability to control it. If there's any problem that seems more likely to crop up, it's people expecting Bucky to be able to stop "acting" like a child. And how devastating those accusations would be when a part of him already hates that side of himself.

Tony arrives with armfuls of paper bags and two guests in tow. Matt smells gunpowder, band-aids, some kind of delicate lemony perfume, and the lingering smell of dog. A woman and a man. She moves purposefully, gracefully; he moves with a grace as well, but it's hidden by a shuffling step, dragging his feet.

"Our two resident assassins have come home!" Tony deposits the bags on the dining room table, as does the other man. The woman, interestingly, does not carry any bags. "This, my friends, is Clint and Natasha, also known as Hawkeye and the Black Widow. And these two sad sacks are Matthew and Foggy. My lawyers."

Natasha gives a quiet snort. "Call me crazy, but I have the feeling you need more than two lawyers."

Matt ducks into the kitchen, gathering up some plates. He hears the other new guest, Clint, approach, impressed with the way he instinctively almost silences his steps.

"Need help?" The smell of fur is strong on his clothes, he must be a dog owner. 

Handing Clint the plates, he turns to grab a handful of silverware and paper towels to serve as napkins. "Thanks," he says, feeling oddly shy. Maybe Bucky is rubbing off on him a little. Or maybe the word assassin threw him for a loop.

Clint hangs his head and rubs the back of his neck, voice muffled. "It's kinda funny. We just got back from Kanpur. In India. And now we're gonna eat Indian food." He leans closer, conspiratorially. "Tony loves this place."

"He mentioned," Matt replies, uncertain.

"If you don't act like you love it, he'll be devastated."

Matt grins. That sort of sounds like Tony. "Is it no good?"

Standing straight, Clint shrugs and the plates in his arm clatter slightly. "Nah, it's good. I'm just saying. Not particularly authentic, though."

In the dining room, Natasha and Tony are teasingly bickering while Foggy sits in bewildered silence. Natasha interrupts herself when they set the plates and utensils down.

"So. Our new guests. Matthew Murdock and James Buchanan Barnes. I assume they've been vetted, Tony? Jarvis?"

Jarvis pipes up before Tony can even open his mouth. "A full background check has been done, Ms. Romanoff. Sergeant Barnes has displayed no aggressive tendencies despite Hydra's programming. Security measures are in place to prevent any violence against Captain Rogers or any of the other residents of the tower."

Security measures? That sounds ominous. Matt hopes he remembers to bring it up with Steve and Tony later.

Tony carefully sets his box of rice back on the table. "Nat, you arrived about an hour ago. In the United States. How exactly do you know about Bucky? It's not even in the news."

Amusement colors her voice. "You aren't the only one with eyes in the walls."

"Wait-" Foggy interjects as he shovels chicken makhani onto his plate. Everyone's head swivels in his direction, surprised. "Forgive me, but are saying you have cameras set up? Because that... That's not entirely legal, ma'am?" A quiver of fear on the last word is all that indicates how nervous he must be, confronting an internationally-known superspy. 

Natasha snorts. "Relax. I keep in contact with Steve when I can. He told me about Bucky."

A relieved sigh from Tony. Clearly spy cameras throughout the tower are not entirely out of the question with her. "Okay, but S.H.I.E.L.D. is kaput. As a member of the Avengers and your teammate, I feel it necessary to ask, who are you doing these secret missions for?"

"Myself," she replies casually, her tone allows for no further questions, the subject is clearly closed.

"Sooo," Clint pipes up to fill the somewhat awkward silence that follows. "You guys superheroes, too?"

Foggy chokes on his food. "No, thank you. I really am just his lawyer. That's a full-time job." He turns his head away from Matt, shoulders tensing, clearly still upset. 

"Honestly," Tony sighs dramatically. "Et tu, Foggy?"

"I'm not a superhero," Matt replies. It sounds incredibly weird, conceited, to think of himself in those terms. Are Clint and Natasha really okay with that? If anything, he'd say vigilante, but that has it's own problematic connotations. "I just take care of Hell's Kitchen." Foggy inhales sharply at that and the full weight of guilt hits Matt all over again.

"Mr. Murdock, Captain Rogers is requesting your assistance on his floor."

Bucky. The pulse of everyone around the table lurches and begins to race. Jarvis is infallibly polite and subdued, but his tone suggests something like urgency. Matt is the first one on his feet, racing for the door, dinner forgotten. Tony and, surprisingly, Foggy are close at his heels, Clint and Natasha not far behind. There's a subtle rustling from the two assassins and Matt can hear their fingers pushing aside fabric and brushing metal. Weapons.

He doesn't have time to stop and address it directly, so he yells to Jarvis as he reaches the elevator, doors already open for him. "Don't let them in!"

The doors slide shut immediately, but somehow Foggy shoves his way past before they close. He hears Tony yell his name then start yelling at Jarvis before they're swept away.

"Thank you, Jarvis," Matt pants. He wasn't sure the AI would be willing to close the doors on his creator, but since Tony didn't issue a specific order in time, it must have been acceptable. The doors slide open just as Matt turns to admonish Foggy. "Stay here!" Matt snaps.

"Make me!"

Gritting his teeth, Matt pushes his friend behind him and focuses, listening for the sound of an ambush by the elevator doors. "Stay behind me, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow, I thought three people were tough to write. Writing five and giving them each enough screen time, so to speak, oh wow. Yikes. I'm not sure I'm capturing anyone well enough, let me know if you think someone's characterization is off?
> 
> Thankfully Bucky will be back in the next chapter!! Promise!!!
> 
> Come say hi on my tumblr! It's mostly just Stucky reblogs, what can I say. Fangirlingicizing.tumblr.com


	18. Monsters of Smoke and Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations!  
> Прекрати quiet  
> мастер master  
> отьебись piss off  
> голубчик little pigeon

Matt focuses harder than he ever has before, his anxiety is skyrocketing so it's difficult to filter, sounds from the street below are rushing in from the apartment on a humid breeze. The front door to the apartment is open and, apparently, the door to the balcony. Matt's jaw tightens and he tries to avoid thinking about Bucky jumping over the balcony and plummeting to the street below.

Foggy's galloping heart, the smell of his sweat and deodorant, the creak of his new shoes and rustle of his old suit as he follows behind cautiously, it's distracting. How can he keep Bucky, a superhuman, safe if he has to worry about all-too mortal Foggy as well.

Stepping into the doorway, he listens. Steve, he can hear his heart thudding, hear him talking quietly, melodic voice soothing. Sounds like he's in one of the bedrooms. 

"Bucky, honey, it's okay, whatever upset you, we can talk about it, okay?"

Jarvis interrupts. "Mr. Murdock and his guest Franklin Nelson have arrived, Captain Rogers."

Silence, then a muffled grunt, clearly coming from behind a hand. That's all Matt needs, he races to the back hallway, every nerve in his body sparking with fear. He can hear the sounds of a struggle in Bucky's room blocked by the closed door, Matt runs over and tries the knob, but it's locked. On both floors, Bucky's rooms have several locks to help him feel safer when he wants to be alone. Rattling the door, Matt can feel the added resistance, knows they're all locked.

"Matt! Matt, it's okay," Steve calls out, sounding a little strangled. Damn it. "We're both okay, we're not hurt, Bucky's just scared-"

"Прекрати! Quiet! His ears are listening!"

The Russian soldier. This is a bad sign. 

"Whose ears, Buck?" Matt asks through the door, pressing his hands to it, willing himself to somehow pass through the solid wood.

"His мастер, his, his handler! Machka, uncle, you need to go-" Bucky pauses, breathing hard. "We can't discuss this here, damn him."

Jarvis begins to speak, voice still calm despite the tense situation. "Sergeant Barnes, if you would be-"

"отьебись!" Bucky snarls. 

Matt turns to Foggy, gently takes hold of his arm. "I need you to intercept Tony and the others. Tell them it's handled. And stay with them!" Interestingly, at the name Tony, Bucky sucks a sharp breath in between his teeth, practically whistling.

Tensing muscles and a clenching jaw indicate Foggy is about to argue, but after a minute he huffs, "fine!" and darts off back the way they came.

"Okay, Bucky," Matt says softly, turning again to the door. "It's just the three of us. Will you let me in?"

Bucky's voice sounds close, coming from right on the other side of the door, pitched low and breathy, almost a whisper. "Please, uncle, I need you to go. You can still leave, he doesn't have you yet. Just run and I'll find you."

"Who?!" Matt asks, frustrated. He tries the knob again even though he didn't hear the locks snap back, he's desperate. Abruptly the knob refuses to give under his hand and he knows Bucky is holding it on the other side. As if trying to hold his hand by proxy.

"You didn't know, it's okay, just go, Machka-"

"I'm not leaving until I know Steve is unharmed!" Matt winces, hating that he would even doubt Bucky for a moment, suspect him of hurting someone. "Not until I see your face."

One lock clicks, then a pause, then a quick series of them. The door is flung open and Matt stumbles, startled by the abruptness of it; a cold hand grabs his upper arm and yanks him in, the door slamming and locking again in his wake. Bucky is the one turning the locks. Steve is on the bed, sitting on the edge, smelling of adrenaline. He's holding things in his arms, clutching them to his chest, Bucky's cap tsum tsum and something else. Smells of dust and ancient cotton, a veritable bouquet of faint smells layering one on top of the other, all clinging to it. Noticeably absent is the grinding of damaged or broken bones, the stinging scent of blood. Not even the particularly heavy sweat of physical activity.

"Steve?" Matt asks. He stays by the dresser, uncertain if moving closer to either of them will cause the soldier to attack. 

"I'm fine, really. He just was upset I wouldn't stop talking-"

Bucky's hair brushes his shoulders, alerting Matt to his head turning towards him. "I wouldn't hurt another asset!" he snaps. "I covered his mouth. He struggled. But he knows his handler is listening!"

"I'm not an asset," Steve speaks up, shocked.

Bucky's fists clench and he shakes his head vigorously. "I'll save you, Stusya, and we can bring him down together."

Matt lifts his hands, palms out, smiling with his eyes wide, trying his damnedest to appear nonthreatening. Not that the soldier would consider him much of a threat really. He tries to remember some of the phrases from the book he studied. "голубчик, explain what happened." He tries to infuse authority into his voice, the soldier responds better to it. 

Shivering, Bucky turns his face away. "I saw his bear, he said Stark gave it to him. I remember... my..." His body is relaxing, slumping, even as his shoulders hunch up almost to his ears. The accent is fainter as he gets lost in thought. "Stark's building, Stark's money, Stark's missions. Everything from him. He smiles and plays nice and says we're free to come and go but then watches us with his- his fly on the wall! Sends his assets to fetch us when we run!" His voice breaks, he's close to tears in his terror. If he cries, there's a good chance their little Bucky will make an appearance instead, which would sadly work in their favor. "Pierce gave me a bunny, once. And Stark gave you a bear. A Bucky Bear." The angry sneer in his voice is unmistakable. "To soften you with emotion. And now he's using you to bind us here." So that's what the dusty thing in Steve's arms is, an old toy bear.

"No, Bucky, he's not my handler." Steve sets the toys on the bed, gets to his feet. "Tony is my friend. He bought me the bear because he knew I missed you."

"We're prisoners here. With his electronic guard dog!" 

A distant sound under the argument. Familiar sounds of thrusters, metal plates, whirring motors. Tony's suit as he comes through the open balcony doors. This is not the time or place, it can only make things worse. "Jarvis, tell Tony to stay away!"

Bucky flinches, mouth closing so sharply his teeth click. Steve lurches a step towards Bucky without thinking and the soldier is back full force, every muscle tensing. He grabs the doorknob with his metal hand, yanks hard but somehow the door holds, wood splintering and cracking. One more pull and it will shatter. 

"Sir, I believe your intervention might create some misunderstanding-" Jarvis is speaking in the living room as the crushing trod of Tony's suit gets closer. There's a reply, tinny, but Matt isn't paying enough attention to hear it. 

Chaos unfolds.

The door shatters under a repulsor blast. Bucky takes a step, off-balance, but then is launching himself through the opening. Steve yells incoherently, follows immediately behind. Matt races to the doorway, praying he isn't killed by a stray blast or fist. In the hall, Bucky propels himself into Tony's body, landing a solid hit with his metal shoulder hard enough that he actually lifts Tony off of his feet, sends him crashing to the floor.

For a moment, Tony is stunned, and Bucky turns back to Steve and Matt, both frozen in shock. "I'll get help," he says quietly just as an arrow grazes his arm, embedding in the wall behind him.

Matt smells dog fur. 

"The next one won't miss." Clint. No, this is worse. Natasha won't be far behind with her own weapons.

Before Matt can speak, Bucky is racing away again. Matt hears the firm twang of a bowstring but unexpectedly there's the music of Bucky's arm and the clatter of the arrow hitting the floor.

"Bucky, no!" Steve yells, rounding the corner. "Clint!"

No blood smell. No shrieks of pain. Only the sound of the door to the stairwell banging against the wall in Bucky's wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So at once point the soldier refers to Matt using a nickname, Machka, which is a diminutive, but also as uncle. It seems odd to use a baby-name for a man he sees as a caregiver, but this is the soldier talking. He still knows Matt cares for him and is family, but the soldier sees himself as the final line of defense, essentially? He's willing to let Matt be in charge but he also knows he's stronger and more combat-ready than Matt. So while he views Matt as his superior, a kind of handler, he also looks down on him a bit for being so weak and squishy. And when he thinks Steve is an asset, too, the soldier considers him something like a brother in the same vein. 
> 
> So, yep, new nicknames in my head forever. Machka and Stusya.
> 
> According to the comics, Tony's armor weights about 225 lbs. I figure with a running start he could definitely lift him off of his feet.


	19. One So Lost

It only takes a few nights for Bucky to make his move. 

Steve always presents as stoic, confident, calm, but Matt knows better. Has felt the barely-controlled rage rushing through every vein in Steve's body as he confronted Tony after the fight, ready to tear his suit off of him piece by piece. And held him later in his apartment as he had a breakdown, silent tears wiped angrily away.

The morning after the fight, the team dedicated themselves to searching for Bucky. Natasha, Steve, and Matt on the ground, Jarvis and Tony digitally. And Clint volunteering for cleanup duty in the apartment, dragging Tony into it when it became clear that Bucky was too skilled to be caught on camera. As evening fell, Steve and Matt went to the prison and spoke to the warden, explained the situation; thankfully she was more than willing to allow the Avengers to babysit Crossbones.

Steve stood watch that night, sat outside of Rumlow's cell in an uncomfortable folding chair in the hall, back straight with determination. And only Matt was able to smell the faint scent of salt ringing his eyes and the oil of his unwashed hair, hear his heart fluttering like hummingbird wings and his teeth grinding. 

After eleven hours, Natasha took over guard duty and Steve returned home to shower and pass out.

It felt unnatural to wait, unable to do anything. Foggy camped in Matt's apartment, keeping an eye out for Bucky, texting him hourly updates. In the morning of the second day, Matt took a cab to the toy store where they had found Bucky's tsum tsum, wandered around the area for an hour, praying to feel an icy hand take his. Nothing. When Steve woke up, they took one of Tony's sports cars to Brooklyn, visited some of their old haunts from childhood on the off-chance Bucky might try to hide out there.

But it wasn't the same, it wasn't truly taking action; it was constant disappointment without even the glimmer of hope beforehand, not really. Emotionally draining. So the chance to play guard over Crossbones was a surprising welcome change of pace. To sit and listen and wait, ready to act. Even if nothing came of it, it was the sort of job Matt could wrap his head around. It was the sort of job he did nightly in Hell's Kitchen. 

When Matt hears the door opening down the end of another hallway, a door that isn't supposed to open for at least another three hours when the guard shift changes, Matt's shoulders tense, the muscles in his legs bunch. The warden keeps Rumlow away from the general prison population, worried about retaliation since the man turned rat. That means the only time people come down this way are when it's scheduled.

Matt breathes deep, draws himself in, shuts out the extraneous. The sound of Rumlow shifting and breathing and turning pages of his novel, the sound of his own heart and lungs and blood. Breathe in, breathe out. There it is. A familiar body scent with the faintest hint of Tony's herbal shampoos, the slight trill of shifting metal plates, the whisper of boots on the floor with a specific uneven weight distribution. Matt bites his lip to keep from saying Bucky's name.

At the end of the hall, Bucky turns the corner and stops, watching. With an effort, Matt unclenches his body, reminds himself this isn't a battle, not as far as he knows. Releasing his tension, Matt loosens his stance, softens his face. He dressed very specifically, grey hoodie and sweatpants, no battle gear, no black. Just warmth and comfort and, hopefully, home.

The silence with which Bucky approaches is unsettling, his footsteps no longer make noise, the only way Matt tracks him is the faint thumping of his heart.

"Uncle Machka, are you unharmed?"

Matt's heart feels like it shatters and he can't help himself, he throws his arms around Bucky's neck and pulls him into a hug. Bucky stiffens, sucks an angry breath through his teeth, but he holds still, allows Matt to cling to him. "Buck, I'm so glad you're safe," Matt whispers. "I was so afraid for you."

After a minute or two, Bucky pushes him away, backing up, hair swishing when he scans both sides of the hall as if expecting an attack. "Were you punished, uncle?" The tightness of his voice, the venom that hides the fear, is unbearable. "I will kill Stark just as Stusya killed Pierce for me."

It's horrifying, the depth of his misunderstanding. Carefully, gently this time, Matt reaches out, takes Bucky's hand is his own. Bucky holds his breath but his grip is firm. "Honey, Tony is not a handler. I swear it to you, and you know I will never, ever lie to you. He bought the bear for Steve as a present. As his friend. And yes he pays for everything but it's just because that's how he shows he cares."

The grip on Matt's hand tightens and he pulls him ever so slightly closer. It's so obvious how badly he wants comfort, reassurance, but he isn't capable of accepting it yet. "How do I know he hasn't made a cтул, a chair. How do I know you are you still."

Matt's heart drops and he shakes his head. How is he supposed to prove that he's not brainwashed. How can anyone prove it. "I... I don't know, Buck. Tell me what to do. I just want you to come home."

Rumlow is stirring. He's picked up on the quiet conversation, heard the voices finally through his thick metal door. Probably not the best option, having these two converse. Not when Bucky is in this state. 

"We need to go," Matt announces, taking a step in the direction Bucky came, tugging his hand. It's like trying to pull an oak tree from the ground. Bucky had been opening up, mellowing, but now he's turning towards the door. Towards Rumlow.

"Winter?" Rumlow's rasping voice seeps into the hall, muted by the steel. 

Bucky shivers, his pulse leaps. "Commander..." He shifts and Matt can sense him staring in his direction. The hairs on the back of his neck raise, every instinct screams danger, but he holds fast. He won't let Bucky be alone here with his former jailer. Tormentor.

After too long, Bucky walks to the door and leans his forehead against it, skull gently rapping against the painted exterior.

"What's wrong?" Rumlow demands. "Blackbird? You there? What's wrong?" There's an edge of fear to his voice. Concern, even. 

"I can't escape them," Bucky murmurs, almost a whisper. "From one master to the next."

Silence, then a shocking explosion of noise as Rumlow punches the door. "Blackbird you son of a bitch!" Rumlow yells. "You and that patriotic patsy! I should have known!"

Bucky steps away from the door, shaking, teeth chattering. He wraps his arms around himself and presses his back against the opposite wall. Matt pulls him close, rubbing his back as Bucky folds in against him, feels the wetness in the crook of his neck from his mute tears.

"You two idiots couldn't protect a damned thing! I only let you lock me up because I thought he was safe with you-"

"Stop!" Matt snaps, his own fury rising. "You're scaring him! As if you have a leg to stand on, you hypocrite, you did nothing when he needed you before!"

Rumlow's tone is lowered but the anger is audible, makes his voice thick. "What the fuck is he talking about then?!"

"He misunderstood something, he got confused and ran away!" Matt doesn't bother pointing out that the first person he ran to was Rumlow, he doesn't need to add fuel to that vain fire. "And let me tell you something, you bastard, if he was in danger, I'd protect him better than you ever did!"

As the words escape his mouth, Bucky pushes him away, and Matt immediately regrets letting his emotions gets the best of him. Sliding to the floor, Bucky huddles against the wall, curling in on himself, gasping for air.

Cursing himself silently, Matt crouches beside him, takes his metal hand in his and squeezes it. "I'm so sorry, baby," Matt whispers, leaning close to Bucky without touching him, worried he might make it worse by crowding him too much. But he can't help it. He just wants to gather him up and hide him away in his pocket, keep him safe and close. "Bucky, I'm so sorry. I promise you, Tony and Steve and I just want you safe. We just want you to come home. No handlers or masters or missions. Listen. What if we make an escape route for you. We can figure out all the different ways you can get out of the tower without having to rely on Jarvis. You saw how easy it was for you to escape the other day, right? And we can come up with a code. If you feel it's unsafe, you say the word and we'll leave wherever we are immediately. No questions asked."

It seems to help, Bucky's pulse slows every so slightly. "W-who were th-th-those other people?" he hiccups wetly. 

"They're friends, they just didn't know what was happening. They saw you knock Tony down so they got scared. But they understand what happened now and they want to be friends with you."

After a minute, Bucky rubs his eyes with his free hand. "Freight car."

Matt blinks. "What?"

"The code word," Bucky says. "Freight car."

"Okay, honey. Freight car it is." Matt slowly raises his hand, rests it on Bucky's cheek, feels the overgrown stubble there. "You need a shave again," he whispers, smiling. He feels Bucky's cheek plump under his palm as he weakly returns his smile.

As Matt helps Bucky to his feet, he hears the springs of Rumlow's bed as the man settles down on it. He also hears what he mutters, pitched just for his enhanced sense of hearing. 

"You owe me an explanation, birdie. Or I'll come and wring one out of you."

Matt grits his teeth and says nothing. His main priority is getting Bucky home. He'll deal with this later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, that code word. I couldn't resist.


	20. Heal Them, With Fire From Above

They wait outside for the car. Bucky shivers against him as they huddle in the shadows by the prison gate. The car that pulls up in a black SUV, stately and enormous, as sedate as Stark's vehicles get. Matt opens the back door for Bucky, listens hard but only Steve's heartbeat is present, no one else. Thankfully. 

Steve turns in the driver's seat and Bucky is instantly in his arms, leaning over the console, practically in his lap. Silent tears, small shuddering breaths. Steve murmurs lovingly, promising everything is okay, no one is hurt or angry, he's safe. Matt gets in the car in the back but he can't concentrate on the situation at hand, he's distracted. Finds himself listening for prison alarms. Listening for Rumlow. Crossbones. The threat--I'll come wring an explanation out of you--probably empty, made for emphasis. The thought isn't comforting enough. 

"Pumpkin, you need to let Matt buckle you in so we can head home," Steve says. Matt can hear the creak of muscle and metal as Bucky clings closer, squeezing tighter, forcing a little "oof" out of Steve. 

Matt leans forward, rubs a slow circle on Bucky's back. "What's wrong?"

"C-can't... T-t-t..." Bucky holds his breath, tilts his head back, blinking rapidly. "T-Tony..." It's all he can get out before he's burying his head in Steve's neck, sobbing. He's getting hysterical, crying out loud, breathy low howls. His entire body is in motion, his heart fluttering, his limbs shaking, kinetic misery. 

Matt wraps his arms around Bucky, gently drawing him away from Steve. Turning his head in the other man's direction, he murmurs, "drive." He can't stand sitting outside of the prison a minute longer, his nerves feel stretched, taunt, ready to snap. Down in the footwells of the backseat, Matt awkwardly sits and pulls Bucky into his lap, rocking him, humming old jazz as best as he can remember. He kisses the side of Bucky's head, whispers in his ear. "You're really brave, Bucky. You were trying to save us all. You're my brave boy. Thank you so much."

The agonized howling quiets a bit, becomes sobbing, less worrisome but still so terribly sad that Matt's heart keeps breaking over and over.

"It was a mistake, Buck," Steve announces from the front of the car. Matt wonders where they're going. At least none of them are in uniform. "It's okay to make mistakes. No one is mad, not me or Matt or even Tony. I talked to Tony, he still wants to be your friend. He was worried you would be mad at him! Everyone made mistakes that night, Bucky. And we all can forgive each other and still love each other. Everyone wants you to come home."

Bucky rubs his face on Matt's shoulder, panting. He's stopped crying and feels totally boneless, flopping in his arms like a rag doll. Matt hugs him tight, relieved.

"You want to go home, Bucky?" Matt asks. Bucky flinches and shakes his head. "We can stay at my apartment tonight instead if you want." Bucky doesn't say anything but doesn't react negatively, either. 

Matt gives Steve directions to a parking garage near the building then begins humming again. He doesn't know if Bucky finds it comforting, but it distracts Matt from the fear crawling around at the base of brain.

The apartment smells a bit dusty, Matt regrets not swinging by to keep up with the cleaning. This is his home, his real home, and he shouldn't neglect it.

"Holy jeez," Steve mutters, wandering to the windows. "Sam mentioned you were in an odd location, but... Wow."

Matt goes into the bedroom, gets a change of clothes and a fresh towel for Bucky to shower and change. "You want something to eat, buckaroo?" Bucky makes an affirmative noise. "You okay to take a shower?" Another yes noise before Bucky takes the armful of clothes and goes into the bathroom. He doesn't lock the door, interestingly. 

Turning in Steve's direction, Matt asks, "So can you tell me what I have available to eat? It's faster than me touching everything in my fridge."

Not a lot, but enough for pasta. Matt sniffs the cream to make sure it's not expired, opens the cans of tomato sauce while he sets Steve to chopping the onions. No garlic, so garlic powder will have to do. 

Steve starts the water for the noodles then leans against the counter, watching. Matt can feel the intensity of his gaze on him. 

"What's on your mind?" Matt asks as he sets the tomato sauce to cooking. It'll need to simmer for a while on low heat.

"What if Bucky never wants to go back?"

Matt pours the cream until it reaches the bump indicating a cup on the measuring glass. "He will. He felt safe there in a way he never did here. All of his things are there, all of his happier memories."

Steve uses a cooking spoon to pull out a noodle and chews it to test. "Not all of them. That's why he wanted to come here."

The bathroom door opens and Bucky comes out, damp and warm and tired, judging by the way his bare feet drag as he walks over. Steve opens his arms and Bucky lets him scoop him up, settling him on his hip. "You're going to fall asleep in your spaghetti," Steve laughs.

Bucky shifts, goes limp in Steve's arms, heart rate steady, breath slowing. Definitely ready for bed.

Matt stirs the cream into the tomato sauce, dumps it over the pasta, and mixed it all together. It smells great, Matt's stomach rumbles. He hadn't been taking great care of himself while Bucky was missing.

Matt grabs a hot pad from a cupboard and sets it on the table, puts the pasta on it. One-handed, Steve manages to grab three plates, settling Bucky into a chair as he puts them down. Matt gets the forks. 

The food goes quick, they're all hungry and the two supersoldiers finish it off. Matt rinses the pans and dishes in the sink then leaves them, too exhausted to care.

Matt knows he should take the couch, he's the only one the neon lights won't bother, but he's unwilling to let Bucky out of his presence for long. He's too tired to change, simply helps Bucky into the bed then stretches out next to him, yawning so hard his jaw cracks. 

"I'll take-" Steve starts, but Matt interrupts.

"Just lay down, Rogers." He marvels a little at the fact that he just ordered Captain America to lay down, makes a mental note to tell Foggy about it.

The bed creaks as Steve settles in on the other side of Bucky after kicking his shoes off and folding his jacket over a nearby chair. It's a tight fit but Bucky likes being squeezed, he relaxes and sighs into sleep, clinging to Matt's arm the way he would a stuffed animal.

It might be a mistake, Bucky might wake up to an accident, but everyone is too tired to care. All Matt wants right now is this, the three of them safe and curled up together. His newfound family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pasta recipe! I haven't tried it but I love tomato cream sauce http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/pasta-with-tomato-cream-sauce/


	21. Atop a Spinning Rock

There's a sound at the door, quiet enough that anyone else would sleep right through it. A kind of metallic rasping in the lock. Matt blinks, groggy, feels sunlight on his face and warm breath on his shoulder. Bucky has one leg draped over his, chilly metal arm clinging to his own.

The front door opens and Matt tenses but recognizes that particular scent of unwashed hair and dog fur, the sound of sneakers. Clint must have picked the lock. And, from the smell of it, he has a bag of bagels. Seems unlikely that he's here to cause problems if he's bringing breakfast. A floorboard squeaks and Matt shuts his eyes, slows his breathing, feigning sleep. Fingers rasp against the wood of the doorframe as Clint peeks into the bedroom before retreating. The front door shuts. The apartment is silent again.

Time to get a chain lock for the front door. 

Matt rolls over, still tired enough to go back to sleep. Bucky's squirmed down during the night, his face is level with Matt's shoulder. Beside him, Steve shifts as well, scoots closer to them, away from the edge of the bed.

Outside, the sounds of traffic. Cars honking, a few distant sirens. People talking. Matt feels incredibly peaceful. Once everyone is up, there will be a lot to do, a lot of talking to do. He'll have to call Bucky's therapists, see if they can come see him. Maybe they can mediate a group session with Tony, too. Matt feels bad for Tony. He'd been defensive, argumentative, covering up for feeling guilty about the incident. But it hadn't been his fault, not entirely.

That's the problem with all these incredible abilities and gadgets, every situation becomes a crisis of epic proportions. Matt considers the two sleeping soundly next to him. Compared to them, he's weak, they could break him in half like a brittle twig if they put their mind to it, it's a miracle the Soldier version of Bucky hasn't already. But he wouldn't trade it for anything. In such a short time, Bucky found a huge place in his heart, there's no way he could ever leave him now.

Steve takes a deep breath, sighs. His heart rate increases. Awake.

"Clint brought bagels," Matt whispers. There's a pause as Steve considers the statement. Matt can hear his stomach rumbling. "He broke in."

"Ah." From the tone of his voice, this is apparently not unheard of behavior from Clint. 

They continue to lay there. Steve seems about as reluctant to break the spell as Matt. Bucky stirs and they both go still, not wanting to wake him up. He sleeps so poorly even in the relative stability and peace of the tower, it would be a crime to wake him up now when he's so deeply asleep.

The metal of his arm trills a little as the artificial muscle flexes. Bucky yawns and rubs his eyes with his flesh hand.

"Hungry, Buckaroo?" Matt asks. He can feel the metal plates shifting against his bicep. 

Bucky sits up in the middle of the bed, breathing slow and even and deep through his nose. Still half asleep. "Bathroom," he says through another yawn before sliding down off of the bed, padding through the door. 

Matt sympathy-yawns, sits up and swings his legs over the edge. There's the rustle of the sheets being pushed back and Steve's feet hitting the floor too. No shower today, just a change of clothes as Steve goes to investigate the marksman's gift. 

"Even brought cream cheese," Steve announces. Bucky is seated at the table already, his jaw creaking as he chews. The gulp of his swallowing. Sweet smell on the table, orange juice. Matt hopes Bucky fills up on more juice than bread or he's going to have a stomachache later.

As Matt sits at the table, Steve asks, "sweet or savory?"

Matt grins. "Savory. With cream cheese." The huge paper bag crinkles, there's the rustle of a paper towel. Matt rests his fingers on the bagel Steve puts in front of him, feels like there's some kind of dry topping on it. Smells oniony, garlicky. "What kind are you eating, Buck?"

"Cinnamon," he murmurs, voice subdued. After a second he sits straighter, muscles audibly tensing, no longer eating. "Who brought the bagels?"

"Clint," Matt says, quickly swallowing his bite. "He wanted to make sure we were okay. He was one of the people at the tower, with the arrows?"

Bucky squirms in his chair, drops his head down in a slouch. "Is he mad at me?" he whispers.

"No, honey," Steve answers, voice tender with sympathy. "He was never mad at you, it was a misunderstanding. He wants to be friends."

They sit for a bit, Matt listens to every subtle movement made, trying to decipher their code. Sometimes--not often but at times like these--he would give anything to see, to study the minute facial movements that might give a better clue to what Bucky must be feeling.

After breakfast, Steve calls up Bucky's therapists, explains what happened. Bucky takes the phone into the bedroom and shuts the door, so Steve and Matt clean. It's easy, there's not a lot of clutter and it's just accumulated dust. Without having to be told, Steve makes sure everything is in the exact same place.

When Bucky emerges, he's sniffling, shuffling his feet, the fiery blur of his body is curled up on itself, small. Steve pockets his phone while Matt wraps an arm around Bucky, helping him to the couch. Steve detours to the kitchen, gets a glass of water, sets it on the coffee table before settling in on the other side. 

"You want to talk about it, Buck?" Steve asks. 

"N-not yet." Bucky rubs his face in the crook of his arm before slumping down in the couch, pushing hard into Steve's side, grabbing Matt's hand and pulling him closer. "D-do you... Do you both promise you're not mad at me?"

Matt squeezes against Bucky, throws his arm around the two. "Oh, Bucky, I promise. No one is mad at you."

Bucky's chest heaves as he draws in a few shaky breaths. "Do you both still love me?"

"Absolutely. You're the most important person in the world to me," Steve says. He kisses the side of Bucky's head and ruffles his hair.

They sit together. The room is warm from the sun and the outside world still feels a million miles away. Bucky's breathing smooths out, his pulse slows. After a bit he wriggles away and drinks the entire glass of water, then squirms back between them. Matt ignores the sounds all around them, narrows his focus to the three heartbeats in the room.

"I'm ready to go home," Bucky announces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chill chapter! Everyone has time to relax, de-stress a little. Sorry about the huge gaps in updates.
> 
> Is the fic too stressful? I tend to be a little overdramatic with events in my writing, I know I throw a lot at the characters with little relief in between. Is it too much? Let me know, I can definitely tone it down.
> 
> I really appreciate everyone who has stuck with me and left such kind comments. Seriously you all are the reason I love ao3, you folks give me the motivation to write. (Don't worry, this isn't goodbye, I'm already planning chapter 22, I just wanted to let everyone know how much I appreciate them!)


	22. Safe to Play Along

They skip Steve's floor, it's repaired but they both agree it might be better to ease into it. Instead: Matt's floor.

Steve goes to the kitchen to prepare dinner and Matt escorts Bucky to his room to change and get his Cap toy. Bucky freezes in the doorway, though, with a small gasp. A pile on the bed, Matt walks over and gently touches one, is met with soft nubby fabric. Squishy tubes. 

"There's... there's a lot. It's you and Tony and a green one and a red-haired one and a blonde with a hammer and one with arrows, I think that's Clint, and-" Bucky's voice breaks a little and he gasps like his lungs spasm. "And me too. It has... it has a little silver paw-thing..."

Matt smiles. "Are those the ones Tony made?"

Rasp of hair against shoulders as he nods hard and fast. "Mm-hm." His fingers brush the pile of toys.

"I think, maybe, Tony's trying to apologize?" Matt suggests. He runs his hand over one, it's bigger than the others and feels like it has pants on. Hulk, maybe. Matt finds the tsum Bucky is petting, runs his fingertips over it. It has straps on it and the front left foot feels different from the rest. The Bucky one. 

Bucky picks it up and hugs it tightly. "So Tony... isn't mad?" 

"No, honey, he's not mad. I promise you."

Dinner is subdued. Bucky clings to his Cap and Bucky tsums, buries his face in them and only peeks out to sip his smoothie. His stomach is churning so it's quite possible he has a stomachache from the bagel earlier.

It's early enough, about five from the slant of the sun on Matt's skin and it's weak warmth. "Bucky, do you want to watch a movie? I can rub your stomach if it hurts."

Quiet adorable lisp, full of gratitude. "Yes, please." He's probably exhausted, the entire ride to the tower he'd been a stiff statue of anxiety.

The movie for the afternoon is Harvey, one of Steve's new favorites. Jimmy Stewart and his invisible, and possibly imaginary, giant bunny. Steve was under the ice when it came out in the 50s. There'd been some concern about showing it to Bucky since it deals a little loose with mental illness and institutions, but the movie is innocent, idyllic. And Bucky is particularly charmed by the thought of talking to an invisible sentient animal.

When James Stewart is delivering his line--"In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant.' Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant"--a line that prods at Matt's heart, Jarvis announces Agent Romanoff is at the door. Bucky stirs and Matt carefully gets up from the couch, gently pushing him to lean against Steve. 

Natasha's heart is steady, even a tad slow. Calm. But it always is. She smells of freshly laundered cotton. The rubbery smell of sneakers. Unexpectedly casual from a woman that knows her attire can be used to sway others' opinions, but perhaps that's the point. 

Matt invites her in the door. No smell of metal, gun oil, or electricity. No overt weaponry. "How can I help you, Natasha?"

Her arms fold, bare forearms brushing against each other. Figure adjusts, head drops. "I want to see Bucky. I." She bites her lip, click of teeth meeting. "I want to speak with him."

The hair on the nape of Matt's neck stands up. He barely knows this woman. Yes, she helped after the fiasco with Tony, she worked hard. But she is a brilliant spy and a master assassin. She works with her own agenda, her own motives kept close to her chest. Sometimes it's impossible to read her, unlike Clint or Tony or Steve that announce their emotions in every involuntary reaction.

"I can ask him if he's okay with that. And I don't really have a right to but may I ask why?"

She shifts her weight and Matt wonders what that signifies. Her heartbeat is still unsettlingly even. "You may not." A pause, she inhales quick, exhales slow. "Not yet."

Matt lets that settle in. She's defensive and trying hard not to be. She's covering up, what, anxiety? Yet her body is loose and relaxed, not an ounce of tension in her muscles. But that's her way, that's what makes her so effective. 

Just as he's about to open his mouth to knee-jerk deny her access to Bucky, at least until he has a chance to talk to Steve, she shifts again and her body language changes, softens, she drops her head further and kicks a foot across the carpet. Her voice is different, too, oddly imperious but also... smiling. "Tell Bucky I'd like to talk, please... Uncle."

As Natasha leaves, Matt finds himself stuck to his spot, mind reeling. Option one, it's a trick. Option two, though. Option two means Natasha Romanoff, one of the deadliest spies in the world, has a little side. But was it forced on her the way Bucky's was or is it... what? For fun? Therapy?

"Jarvis," Matt starts but finds he's at a loss. "Is she...?"

Thankfully Jarvis' voice only comes from a nearby speaker, keeping quiet. "Of the files on Agent Romanoff that I have access to, none indicate she may have experienced similar brainwashing. She also has never de-aged in any public spaces in the tower, intentionally or otherwise."

Still reeling, Matt settles back on the couch, catching the tail end of the movie. It's always a bit sad, bittersweet, and he wishes they could turn it off before then.

Playtime, Bucky is opening up more to them, bringing them in his games instead of quietly trying to play alone. They get the other tsums from his bedroom and the Daredevil, Captain America, and Bucky toys go on an adventure to save a hostage from a bad guy. It's uncomfortably reminiscent of when Crossbones used Matt as bait, but he shakes off the way his skin crawls. The other tsums sit nearby, untouched but close. 

Once Bucky is tucked in after a story from each of them, Matt stops Steve on his way out the door to his own floor. "How well do you know Natasha?"

Steve tucks his hands in his pockets, tilting his head to the side. "I would say better than most, not as well as a select few? She helped me when I first found out Bucky was alive."

"And how much do you trust her?"

"Honestly?" The smile is evident in Steve's voice along with a very soft fondness. "I'd trust her with my life."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eheh Bucky's love of Bucky Bear from APSHDS makes an appearance! Also references to how, in the beginning of the series, he plays some not so nice games with his toys that replicate missions he went on. Admittedly he didn't go on the mission to save Matt, but he wishes he could have and so is doing a little wish-fulfillment. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me still!!!!!!


	23. Rose Tinted Eyes

Bucky is half-hidden behind Matt, his metal hand firmly clutching the back of Matt's hoodie, gagging him a little as it pulls tight against his throat, a familiar situation. He's shivering but tensing every muscle in an effort to stop. Natasha hasn't arrived yet, so Matt turns and rubs Bucky's shoulder.

"Buck, you don't have to do this is you don't want. You could talk to her on the phone. Or through Jarvis if that would be easier? You can take little steps to work up to it." A suggestion from his therapists, Matt had called them earlier while Bucky was still napping.

Matt also called Steve to suggest postponing. He wanted Steve to be present since he is actually close with Natasha, but there's an appearance scheduled at a hospital in Michigan that Steve simply didn't have the heart to cancel. And both Matt and Bucky didn't want him to.

"Daddy said Natasha is his friend," Bucky whispers. He's clutching his Bucky tsum.

It seems a bit odd to stand around waiting, almost like an ambush. Matt guides Bucky to the couch and they settle in, Bucky curling up against him, pulling his legs up and squeezing up close to his side. He's about to suggest Bucky go get one of the Braille storybooks for him to read out loud when Jarvis announces Natasha has arrived. Along with Clint. 

Matt frowns, surprised. As he gets up from the couch, Bucky's breath stutters in a silent whine and he curls up tighter, scooting to sit against the arm. "It's okay, honey," Matt murmurs, pausing to touch Bucky's face, feeling the high cheekbone, the beginning of stubble, his soft earlobe. Bucky's heartbeat slows ever so slightly at the familiar touch and Matt feels his cheek plump in a small smile under his hand. 

When Matt unlocks and opens the door, Clint is interestingly the first one to speak, both paper and plastic bags rustling in his arms as he does. "Hey, Uncle Matt. I brought Tasha. And food." The name throws him off but Matt can't help smiling, Clint's occasional cheer is infectious. "There's a juice bar a couple blocks away, we stop there after our morning runs."

Matt grins, asks, "is that where you got the bagels the other day?"

"Aw, no, should I have gotten bagels? That time they were Pepper's idea. She was pretty worried about everyone but couldn't make it out herself." Clint shifts his weight and there's an oddly muddled thump and Natasha is jostled. A hip bump, apparently. "Say hi, крошка!"

Natasha's head shifts in Clint's direction and there's a brief silence, then her head whips around in Matt's direction. "Hi... Uncle."

"Uh." Matt is not entirely sure how he feels about this situation. And now Clint's role in all this. For that matter, his own role. "Come on in, Bucky's in the living room." Just saying the name makes him remember his anxiety, his fear over the motive behind this visit. He wants to stop Natasha, grab her arms and demand she explain herself. But she and Clint slide past him and down the hall, their hearts strong and steady, though Natasha's is racing ever so slightly.

Again, Clint is the first to speak. "Hi, Bucky. I'm sorry I shot at you with an arrow."

On the couch, Bucky stiffens and his breath catches in his throat. He's overwhelmed instantly, his heart is so light and fast, a hummingbird in his chest. Matt hurries over and reaches out, glad to hear the soft trill of his arm as he clings to Matt's waist. Bucky doesn't like surprises. 

"Sorry," Clint says sheepishly. "I brought muffins, if that helps."

A perfume that is fast becoming familiar, warm and rich, wafts closer. Natasha plops on the couch, her limbs loose, flopping on the cushions. It's so out of character it startles Matt. "Do you like Halloween?"

Matt blinks, bewildered. 

The face half-buried in his hip slowly goes up and down in the affirmative. "I remember candy," Bucky whispers. "And parties."

"I like candy, too," Natasha replies. "Clint and I dress up every year and eat candy and watch scary movies. D'you like scary movies?"

A firm shake no.

Natasha kicks her sneakers off, they hit the floor softly, bounce a bit, and she tucks her legs under herself. "We're gonna make decorations. Tony said we can have a Halloween party at the tower this year."

The grip around Matt's waist loosens slightly but Bucky reaches out, metal arm singing, flesh fingertips brush fabric and he's pulling his toy into his arm, squashing it between Matt's leg and his own chest. "I'm invited?"

Snorting, Natasha waves her arms in the air in Clint's direction, the air whistles slightly as they move. "It's a party for you, Bucky." Clint shuffles over and hands her a paper bag. It rustles open and the smell of blueberry muffin fills Matt's nose. It's still warm. Without asking, she thrusts the bag in Bucky's direction. It's either take the bag or rudely make her keep holding it out. 

Bucky rubs his face in Matt's side--a behavior Matt secretly adores--then shuffles his tsum to the other arm so he can gingerly take the bag. As it comes closer, there's an assortment of smells. Apple, lemon, cinnamon, blueberry. From the crinkling of the bag, it sounds like a good number are inside. Bucky sets the bag on the couch, sticks his arm in, pulls one out. Apple and cinnamon.

"We brought mini fake pumpkins and paint and glitter." Clint lifts his arm and the supplies inside the plastic bag shift, clatter against each other. "I bet your daddy would be super excited to get a Halloween pumpkin you made when he gets back."

It's like a physical blow, Bucky rocks back and drops his muffin. It rolls off the couch and lands softly on the floor. He gasps, mouth falling open. Matt leans against the arm of the couch and reaches down, takes Bucky's hand in his own.

Clint sets the plastic bag by the couch and sits down on the armchair across from them, leans his arms on his thighs, sighs. "I keep messing this up, I'm sorry, Bucky. It's okay if you're little." Natasha grabs the bag of muffins and passes it to Clint. From the smell, he takes a lemony one.

Natasha interjects but her voice is fond. "We want to be friends. And..." She sits up straighter, her muscles tense and the couch cushion sighs. This is difficult for her, more difficult than she would normally let on. And this next part is harder. "I'd like to have a sleepover after. If you want. You and me."

There's an awkward extended silence. Natasha picks the fallen muffin up and sets it on the coffee table. Clint chews, swallows, his stomach gurgles. Bucky is so still it's easy to forget he's a person, like holding the hand of a sun-warmed statue.

"We need to run that past Steve first," Matt blurts out, trying to ease the tension. "He's the daddy, after all." Logical argument. Excellent case, Murdock.

Beside them, Natasha's muscles stop creaking with strain, her breath unfurls in a silent sigh. 

Clint continues chewing.

"So," Tasha asks, and her voice has taken the quality Matt finds hard to pin down. Fluid, Americanized, laid back. "Wanna paint pumpkins?"

After a minute, Bucky nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> крошка = crumb, a Russian term of endearment
> 
> I feel like Natasha at first would not like Russian nicknames, probably had her fill in her past, they would've been used to manipulate her. But since it's Clint, since he made the effort to learn them, she comes to secretly like them. If anyone else were to use one, she'd break their fingers.
> 
> So Halloween before the war, according to what I read, was sort of wild. Lots of pranking, vandalism. Schools, churches, and city councils would throw parties and started trick or treating to keep an eye on kids and stop misbehavior. Curfews were put in effect. It was a huge problem. In WWII it all took a back seat because of rationing and people taking a dim view of vandalism. Private parties were more common.
> 
> In the comics Clint was suffering from depression. Hence the "occasional cheer" line. He seems like the kind of guy that would lift the mood of the room when he was doing better. Matt, please suggest Sam finds a therapist for Clint


	24. See You Real Soon

Pumpkins go surprisingly well. Clint found a tablecloth in the linen closet for the table, then draped a section of that in a newspaper they brought. Three small artificial pumpkins were brought out, along with several pots of what smelled like paint and glue, brushes, and larger pots of what Clint explained was glitter.

After the guests leave, Bucky describes the pumpkins for Matt over dinner. Natasha painted black and red stripes. Clint painted his purple. Bucky, after some prodding, reveals his is red, white, and blue. Since it's for Steve. They then brushed glue over the pumpkins and poured glitter on them. Black for Natasha, silver for Clint and Bucky.

The pumpkins are sitting on a window sill, drying. The apartment smells strongly of glue and paint. 

Natasha and Clint excused themselves after the painting, but not before she made Bucky promise to ask his daddy about the sleepover. She reminds Matt of a bossy older sister, possibly a positive influence on his shy, frightened boy. 

Dinner is smoothies and spaghetti. Matt allows Bucky to take as much he wants as long as it's no more than half a plate, with the understanding that anything he doesn't want Matt or Steve will eat for him. That way, no guilt over wasted food.

After a few bites, Bucky's fork scrapes over the plate, the spaghetti wetly slithers in the sauce, but there's no eating sounds, only the occasional sip of his smoothie. 

"Did you like playing with Natasha and Clint?" Matt asks, breaking the silence. 

Bucky rubs his mouth with his napkin. His metal arm keeps trilling, though, as he flexes without realizing it. Stress response. "Mm-hm," he finally murmurs. No more is forthcoming, though. 

"Do you want to go to the Halloween party?"

Thankfully, Bucky's heart speeds up, the flexing stops, and he leans forward against the table in excitement. "May I?"

Matt smiles, remembers his weak excuse to Natasha. "Of course! I said we'd ask Steve so you would have time to decide if you want to go. I'm guessing you want to?"

"Yes!" Bucky is grinning, Matt can hear his breath between his teeth. His stomach is starting to churn, so Matt pulls his plate over to himself and starts eating. He slurps up a long strand of spaghetti loudly on purpose and Bucky giggles.

"What do you want to dress up as?" Matt asks.

It takes a long moment for Bucky to reply. "Aurora." There's no obvious question to it, it's clearly what he wants, but there's an edge. A defensive, anxious edge. He's afraid of judgement. 

Matt smiles and reaches his free hand out. Bucky immediately matches the movement, clasping Matt's hand in his own. "I bet your daddy is going to be really excited about this. Do you want us to dress up, too?"

"Yes, please." Bucky's voice is full of warmth.

"And what about the sleepover?"

There it is. The thing that was bothering Bucky. His body tenses and he drops his head, buries his face in whichever tsum he's clutching. His hand tightens on Matt's painfully before letting go and dropping to his lap.

"Buckaroo?" Matt asks, pitching his voice as soft and calm as possible. Not worried, or at least not too worried, as it could add to Bucky's anxiety. "What's wrong, honey?"

Quiet whimper. Bucky's throat clicks as he swallows repeatedly. Holding back tears. He shakes his head, clenches his jaw so hard it creaks. 

Matt usually can guess what Bucky is thinking. He's not indifferent--he's just as attached to Bucky as any of the others are--but whereas Steve tends to fly of the handle, Matt can keep his cool. Can look at the situation and figure out what's bothering Bucky. It's not readily apparent this time, though. There's so many reasons Bucky could be afraid of sleeping over. He's never slept without Steve or Matt on the same floor. He's never slept anywhere but his bed and even then he has a lot of trouble staying asleep. And he- oh. The bed wetting. 

This is one of the many times he wishes he had Steve's strength, he wants to scoop Bucky up and hug him as hard as possible. 

Instead, Matt settles for coming around to the other side of the table and hugs Bucky to him, the other man's arms circling his waist as he buries his face in his stomach. "Honey, you remember the special underwear? Tony made it for you. We still have it."

"No!" His voice is muffled but very definite. His metal arm sings as he squeezes Matt tighter.

Matt rubs his back in circles, creating warmth, and the muscles there gradually loosen under his fingertips. Knots vanish. He makes a mental note to look up pressure points and massage techniques. Bucky's so anxious all the time, he probably has a lot of tension and pain in his back and shoulders. Especially with the heavy metal arm. "If you absolutely don't want to wear them, you don't have to sleepover at Natasha's. We can still all go to the party. You have a week to think about it, okay?"

Mutely Bucky nods, sniffles. 

That night, Steve calls while Bucky is brushing his teeth. Matt quickly relates the get-together and the invitation to the Halloween party. And the sleepover. And the tears. After a bit Bucky is by his side, asking to speak to his daddy. He tells him all about playing with Tasha and Clint and painting pumpkins, but his voice is subdued. When Steve is speaking, Bucky chews his lip. Matt can smell a faint whiff of blood after. 

Steve says his goodnights and love yous, Bucky always wants a few extra as if trying to convince himself it's true, then Bucky hands Matt's phone back to him. 

"Time for bed, honey," Matt announces. It's only seven, but they read stories and practice Braille together every night. 

Bucky gets his own pajamas out when Steve's out of town. They're all Captain America themed, thanks to Tony's sense of humor, but Bucky loves them. There's one pair, a fluffy onesie pajama that looks like Steve's uniform, that Bucky absolutely refuses to wear. His adult self tried to throw that one away, but Jarvis tattled and Tony bought another one.

The tsums Tony made line the bed where it's against the wall. Bucky slides under the sheets and gathers his Cap, Daredevil, and Bucky tsums, curls his body around them. Matt settles against the headboard and Bucky squeezes against him, resting his head on his lap. 

Matt pets each tsum for a bit, Bucky likes when his caregivers pay attention to the toys. "What's on the agenda tonight? We could practice your Braille, you're getting really good at distinguishing the cells from each other."

"No, thank you." Bucky squirms a little. "Is it-... is it really okay if I don't sleep at Tasha's? Will she be m-mad?" His chest hitches and his voice quivers. He's always so eager to please, so terrified of upsetting others.

"If she really wants to be your friend, she won't be mad." Matt pats the top of Bucky's head, starts petting his hair. It's always particularly fluffy on the days he lets Matt wash it. He doesn't like washing it himself, is afraid of dunking his head under the water but also refuses to let anyone in the room when he bathes, so every three days Matt or Steve help him wash it in the sink. "Real friends will understand when you can't or don't want to do something."

After a minute, Bucky nods. "W-will you read to me, Uncle? Sleeping Beauty?"

Matt gets up, finds the slender book, sits back down on the bed. When it's time for reading, Bucky is supposed to lay on his pillow to help promote healthier sleeping habits, but it doesn't stop him from burying his face against Matt's leg. Matt stretches the leg out and Bucky hugs it the way he hugs his toys. Cute.

As he opens the book, Bucky mutters something but it's impossible to hear against Matt's sweatpants. He shifts slightly and repeats himself. "What costume are you gonna wear?"

Matt hums, considering. He hasn't dressed up without Foggy's input since before college. Which gives him an idea, one that makes him grin. "You remember my friend Foggy? Would it be fun if he came to Halloween?"

"I... I think so?" Bucky's voice quavers but he there's no sign of tears, yet, no salt smell on the air. 

"What if we dressed as Aurora's fairy godmothers? There's three, Steve could be one, too."

Bucky laughs quietly. "Okay."

A slight change to the plan crosses Matt's mind and he smiles, secretly thrilled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In reality it would take a lot longer to do the pumpkins, almost a full day, you're supposed to do a bit then let it dry then do another bit. But having them awkwardly sit around for hours sounded awful. Also when you do crafts with kids they're rarely perfect? Lol
> 
> I'm pretty sure I'm going off-canon (so to speak) with Bucky. Actually this series is sort of going off the rails with different things in general, people are acting differently and taking different roles versus the (quite frankly perfect) inspiration, APSHDS. The characters are sort of moving around and doing their own thing without me agreeing to it. And that's my lame apology for changing things? Lol ugh I'm terrible, sorry.


	25. Smooth Sailing

The party is in the common room. They're meeting Foggy and Sam there, or rather Fauna and Merryweather. Matt is dressed as Flora. The entire team worked on the outfits together, everyone's so excited by the prospect and wanted to make sure Bucky's first Halloween with them is especially memorable. Sam, Foggy, and Matt were dressed in all blue, green, and red respectively, billowing shirts with long cloaks and enormous witch hats fastened to their heads by some kind of soft fabric.

Steve, originally one of the fairies, is instead dressed as Prince Phillip, including a ridiculous Robin Hood hat with a large feather Tony told Matt is a hideous shade of magenta. They kept it a secret from Bucky without really thinking it through; it surprised Bucky so much when he first saw Steve that he started crying. Silent tears, head tilted back, chest heaving, but happy ones thankfully. It took a lot of hugs for him to calm down. Steve with his boundless health and strength and heroism and love, he is truly Bucky's prince. It only seemed right. 

Matt made damn sure Jarvis will take lots of photos of Steve carrying Bucky around in their costumes; Tony is apparently working on 3D printing for photos so that Matt can "see" them.

As for Bucky's costume, Matt's been assured it's a masterpiece. Natasha knows two clothiers, an extremely reliable and tight-lipped couple that alter or even make clothes for her without batting an eye at some of her more exotic requests. Hidden pockets, built-in knife sheaths, anti-photography fabric, that sort of thing. They were more than willing to come to the tower, measure Bucky, study Steve's drawings of ideas, and bring fabric samples for everyone to ooh and aah over. Matt contented himself with stroking the bolts, enjoying the different textures: silk and satin and tulle and cotton and linen and chiffon. 

The final fitting was yesterday and Steve described Bucky's Aurora costume with a glowing, warm joy so contagious that Matt can't help but grin like a fool. Blue pants and shirt, pink vest with wide stiff lapel. Golden tiara. The important part, the part that makes Steve's voice strained as if close to tears, is the coat. A waistcoat, fluffy chiffon over something firm and satiny under Matt's fingers, rustling with every movement. Steve explained the jacket is special, blue underneath with pink chiffon over it so that, depending on how it's viewed, can look like it's changing colors. 

One of the clothiers, Arthur, had curled the ends of Bucky's hair during the fitting to help complete the costume. Today, Natasha stepped in after Steve burned himself repeatedly on the curling iron.

The elevators open and music and chatter filter in followed by a veritable tidal wave of other sounds and smells. The Monster Mash transitions into Thriller. Natasha is explaining her costume to Sam, "no, Vasilisa the Wise. Russian folklore? Baba Yaga? No?" Garlic and nutmeg and rosemary and apple smells. A fluttering, something brushing against Matt's face as they walk into the common room, Steve murmuring "cheesecloth ghosts" in explanation. 

Familiar cologne. Foggy. "These wings are a little awkward, I keep bumping into things. I knocked a jar of candy all over the floor. In front of that intense spy lady, that was great."

They're a last minute addition thanks to Clint. Cheap tiny fairy wings on their backs, straps like backpacks. It makes Bucky giggle when Matt wiggles his shoulders so they flap.

"Looking good, Bucky," Sam says, coming up. He has a glass of something fizzy, smells like kiwi. 

"Picture!" Tony announces over the relatively subdued din. "First the Disney Division, everyone gather around Helen Keller, don't make the blind man fumble around, Bucky you get in front, you're the star of the show."

There's shuffling, some chatter from the others, everyone's heart is beating fast and clean and pure. Voices are tender, happy. Jarvis announces he's taking the photo. Abrupt movement next to Matt, it takes him a moment to realize Steve has scooped Bucky up, princess-style. Bucky's heart races and he buries his face in Steve's chest but there's a shy laugh in the back of his throat. A few more photos, then a group shot.

"Wait," Clint says, "we need to tell Matt what our costumes are. I'm-"

"Not Legolas is what you are!" Tony interrupts. 

Noisy inhalation, exasperated sigh. "I got the costume, thank you. Anyway, I'm a robot. Tasha?"

"Vasilisa the Wise. She was a character in Russian fairytales." Her voice is shy, she sounds a little younger, not quite as young as she was the other day, but somewhere in that headspace.

"I'm Data, Bruce here is Geordi. From Star Trek."

Bruce's tranquil voice interjects, "Next Generation."

"I wanted to be Janeway and Neelix but Bruce isn't big on Voyager. Philistine."

Bruce laughs, tucking his chin against his chest and folding his arms, the polyester fabric of his costume hissing loudly. "Sorry, next Gen is clearly superior, I don't make the rules."

"That went completely over my head, fellas," Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck. 

"No worries, methuselah, we know you didn't have those scary moving pictures in your day. Don't worry, it's not actually tiny people in the box in your room." Tony pauses, takes a breath. His posture adjusts, muscles clench and release, and he tugs his earlobe, anxious. "Bucky, I'm not great at this sort of thing, but, I... I wanted to ask for your forgiveness. Do you think we could be friends again?"

Bucky clutches Matt's hand suddenly, the cold metal startling him. His breathing is a little shallower, but it's not quite worrying yet. After a minute, he nods hard then turns and shuffles so he's halfway behind Matt's back.

Tony straightens up, takes a deep breath. "I know some robots that are going to be very happy to see you. Dum-E keeps making smoothies and I can only drink so many healthy things before I want to gag. And I really need your help working on that present for your uncle." He clears his throat, increasingly awkward.

Recognizing the atmosphere, Bruce asks, "Would anyone like something to eat or drink?"

There's a garlic soup, too tricky to eat while standing for Matt though a good choice for Bucky. Instead, Matt takes some deviled eggs, rosemary breadsticks. Matt runs his fingers over the bread, feels knobs like knuckles, and an almond at the tip like a fingernail. Clever. Bruce shows Bucky it's okay to drink the soup right from the bowl; when it's empty of the broth, Steve eats the leftover chunks of sausage and potato.

Mulled cider or the fizzy kiwi drink which, apparently, is neon green. Bucky's excited about the color but drawn to the cider by what Matt suspects is nostalgia. 

A song comes on that makes Matt groan. The Time Warp. As expected, Foggy rushes over and grabs Matt's hand. "Come learn the Time Warp, Bucky!" In college, Foggy had insisted they attend at least one showing of the Rocky Horror Picture show, complete with props and dances.

Matt and Foggy show Bucky how and Tony has Jarvis play the song again. Several others join in: Tony of course, Clint, Sam fumbles through some, Natasha sings along while Steve watches, laughing. Matt briefly wonders if the kiwi drink is spiked. 

Afterwards, Bucky's shyness kicks in, he's overwhelmed by the attention, so Steve scoops him up and settles him on his hip. Back to the food, Steve grazes and every so often Bucky takes a few nibbles. Matt sniffs, smells pumpkiny, sweet. 

Over the speakers a guitar and a singer start up, singing about a little ghost. On the other side of the room, Tony explains to Clint that the fog he apparently has as part of the decorations is created by dry ice.

"So." Lemony perfume. Muffled whisper of what sounds like a wool dress. "Did Bucky decide about the sleepover?" 

Matt turns towards Natasha's voice, quickly swallowing the KitKat bar he found in a bucket of candy. Easy to tell from the shape what that one is. "Yes, he wants to do it. Natasha, I have to ask. Are... are you a Little?" Matt had done research online with the assistance of Jarvis, back when he first moved in. He had some minor experience from former romantic partners but never knew there was an entire community dedicated to the practice of non-sexual age-play. 

She looks away so sharply her hair swings and creates a breeze. Her fingers play with the hem of one sleeve, picking at embroidery, a slightly rasping click. "I didn't have a childhood. It was... taken from me." She's very still, all displays of anxiety gone. She's practically a statue. Even her breathing and heart have slowed. "Bucky needs friends. He needs love and support and people to show him. That what he did, it wasn't him. And it's okay to be a person. Even if that person isn't always an adult."

For a minute, Matt wants to ask. Does she know that because she needed the same thing? He's picked up a little about Natasha's past from conversations with the others. And about Clint's, his time under Loki. He wants to hold her hand, wants to hug them both close and tell them what they need to hear. But then Matt hears Steve's graceful, distinctive footsteps nearing. He nods at Natasha, unsure what to say. If there even is anything to say.

And as long as tonight goes okay, Matt will harbor no more blatant suspicion. No more concern. She deserves friends, too, just as much as Bucky.

"Tony's asking if we want to watch a movie?" Steve asks. Bucky isn't with him. Focusing, he easily locates the singing of Bucky's metal arm. He's talking to Sam and Clint, they're admiring his costume and asking about Princess Aurora. He's safe. "It's something called Wallace and Gromit? Something about were-rabbits."

Seated next to him, Foggy whispers a narration of what's happening in the movie while Bucky, seated on the floor, clings to his leg with one arm and Steve's with his other. Halfway through the movie, there are calls for Foggy to speak up, his narration is hilarious. 

After the movie, they pick at the remaining food, stuff candy in their pockets, start to drift to their respective rooms. Bucky is asleep in Matt's lap as Steve retrieves the backpack they brought. Bucky's backpack, shaped like Cap's shield. In it, his pajamas, his Captain America and Black Widow tsums, a juice box, a couple of his favorite picture books, a Starkphone with everyone's numbers saved, and--stuffed down at the bottom, below everything, hidden--the special diaper.

There's a plan in place. Right before bed, Bucky will go to the restroom one last time and change into his diaper and pajamas. And in the morning when he wakes up, there's a waterproof plastic bag for him to put the dirty diaper in. That way there will be no evidence left in the trash. And if he needs to Matt or Steve at any point, he can just ask Jarvis to wake them or, if he's feeling nonverbal, he can text them.

So when Natasha walks up, the hem of her dress brushing against the plush carpet, Matt feels okay about letting his boy go. And when he hears the sound of Bucky's palm rasping against Natasha's as they hold hands, when he hears her telling him to call her just "Tasha," he feels even better.

He's a little restless in bed. Wakes up sporadically through the night and asks if Bucky's asked for him or Steve. Thankfully no, but he can't help worrying.

Jarvis reports a little. "Miss Romanov and Sergeant Barnes are currently coloring, sir." "Miss Romanov and Sergeant Barnes are playing with his stuffed animals, sir." "Sergeant Barnes is changing into his sleepwear, sir."

So it's no surprise Matt sleeps in. He's usually the last one up in the tower, a night owl. But this is the best way he's ever woken up, that's for sure. A soft metallic song is in his ears and the familiar smell of Bucky filters through his sleep-addled brain. Matt is on his side and Bucky's curled up in front of him, as small as possible, his head tucked under Matt's chin. 

Yawning, Matt wraps his arm around Bucky, rubs his back slowly. "You have fun, Buckaroo?"

Bucky clutches at the hem of his sweatshirt, plays with it, wrapping it around his fingers. "Yeah," he whispers. He sounds happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I didn't feel right having Bucky dress in an actual dress for Halloween. I feel like it could have been interpreted as disrespectful of transwomen. Especially since he isn't doing it as cosplay, rather for a costume. Instead, I remembered Sebastian Stan was in Once Upon a Time and googled him and ohhhh I need to watch this show immediately. HE IS IN A WAISTCOAT. I need a moment. So http://pin.it/-mqsHRg for his outfit inspiration, http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R10G8y2lytU/VBXPKkuwOEI/AAAAAAAAFew/g_SQkjydj5w/s1600/DSCF0478b.jpg for the fabric concept for Bucky's jacket.
> 
> Clint's costume is loosely based on his Ultron costume in Hawkeye vs Deadpool.
> 
> A lot of the food and decoration ideas are from Martha Stewart. Her diy holiday stuff is pretty awesome. Tony wanted to go crazy over the top with it, but Clint insisted on doing some themselves.


	26. Under Tooth and Nail

When Matt gets home from patrol, he's surprised to find Bucky, Foggy, and Steve awake and playing with stuffed animals in the living room. It has to be around five in the morning. Gritting his teeth to hide his pain, Matt lingers in the shadows by the front door, listening. Bucky's been obsessed with the Princess Bride lately and it sounds like it's reflected in their game. Foggy is Fezzik, Steve is Inigo, and Bucky is Buttercup. Foggy is also taking turns as Prince Humperdinck, sometimes pretending to forget to switch the voices; every time he does, Bucky gets adorably exasperated.

"Matt!" Steve interrupts, getting to his feet.

"You're up early," Matt replies, unwilling to come into the living room. He feels his bullet wound seeping, his shirt is clinging to his side, sodden with blood. It just grazed him but he chased the shooter and further tore the injury open. 

Bucky jumps up, heart tripping happily. "Uncle! You can play Westley, I saved him for you because you dress like him-" He runs up and hugs Matt hard, too hard. After a second he pulls back, holding his arms out stiff in front of him. The flesh arm is probably bloody now, Matt can smell the iron tang. Bucky's breath stutters and stops, his bare feet shuffle across the carpet as he takes a step back. 

"It's okay," Matt starts, knowing it's too late. "I'm not badly hurt, it's fine, it's bleeding a lot but I'm okay."

He's actually startled when Steve grabs his arm and pulls him towards the kitchen. He'd been so focused on Bucky that he didn't notice the other man approach. Bucky is breathing fast and hard but, surprisingly, not crying. His arm plates are silent but to make up for it the tension is his muscles is audible.

Matt tries to keep his voice light and conversational as Steve helps him into a stool at the counter. "Hey, Foggy, can you go find Tony? Ask him about the ducks?"

Hovering awkwardly behind them, Foggy's tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth and he inhales sharply. His pulse speeds up. Sam had a great idea to color-code emergencies related to Bucky, coaching them in language that might not set off his more dangerous side. Ducks for yellow, not too bad but potentially perilous for the average human. "All right, so. I'll just. Yep. Ducks."

Steve lifts the hem of Matt's shirt, gingerly sliding it up over his wound, but as Foggy awkwardly shuffles past Bucky, he pauses and they all hold their breath. Thankfully the front door opens without a problem and Foggy is gone, soon to be safe in Tony's lab.

After the brief pause, a breeze as Steve turns his head, presumably looking at Bucky. "I need to get the first aid kit from the bathroom." When there's no response from the other man, Steve quickly trots off. Matt can hear him digging under the sink. 

Ice cold fingers touch Matt's injured side, too close to the wound. There was no warning, but there never is with the Soldier. "Machka," he murmurs, voice heavy with disappointment. Matt blushes, irritated with the embarrassment the tone brings out in him. "Report."

"Heard about some mob activity." He doesn't elaborate, thankful for the distraction of Steve's return. All the local gangs have been laying oddly low lately, but there was some sort of meeting amongst the Irish. Matt arrived too late, found a pile of bodies, shattered glass, blood. A man on foot nearby, surrounded in a heavy sharp cloud of gunpowder. 

"I need to flush out the wound, Matt, you should come in the bathroom."

Wincing, Matt gets to his feet. The tight shirt had been applying a modicum of pressure; now with it rolled up, the wound is angrier, shifting with every movement. As he trudges to the bathroom, a chilly metallic hand rests on the small of his back as if guiding him. It's something of a comfort at this moment, a steadying force. Settling down on the side of the tub, Matt can't help the low whine he makes when Steve presses a towel against his side under the wound. A rush of concentrated water pours over the injury and Matt groans, louder, eyes squeezed shut.

"Keep talking," Steve murmurs, his voice warm and soothing. His daddy voice. Trying to keep Matt distracted and calm. 

"A lone shooter--" He flinches at the next stream of warm water and his breath catches in his throat. "He, he grazed me, I lost track of him when he took another shot at me. He missed." Barely missed, really. Matt's panting now but Steve's shuffling around, putting down something soft and plastic and picking up a small object.

Steve's fingers rub over the wound, he's applying some kind of cream, smells medicinal. "No clue who it could be?"

"No. Tried to pursue but he escaped."

Finally the gauze pad and the tape. Matt sits a moment longer, shivering. The treatment was worse than the injury, honestly.

"How're you doing, Bucky?" Steve asks as he stands. With the three of them in here, these two imposing physical presences, Matt is feeling a little claustrophobic. He wants to change his clothes, lay down for a bit. Steve solicitously grabs his arm to help him get up and Matt can't help but smile. 

"I need to speak with Stark," Bucky announces firmly. Thankfully he doesn't try to leave but instead cups Matt's other elbow. 

Matt shakes them both off, enough is enough. "I am perfectly fine," he announces. "I am, however, hungry. Have you two eaten?"

Insistent, Bucky again grabs his elbow but this time presses his thumb into the crook of it, not quite painful but very firm. "Uncle. So flippant." Again the tone of disappointment. "You've been shot. I need to speak to Stark, he has new armor for you."

"Bucky, honey, I think now isn't a good time to talk to Tony." It didn't go well last time Bucky was in his soldier mindset. Steve shifts his weight nervously, distributing it equally between his feet, and rubs his forearm, palm hissing across his skin. "We can help Uncle Matt get something to eat since he's so tired."

Heavy sigh but Bucky's body language shifts. He taps his foot a few times, the bare skin slaps against the tile. Thankfully the grip on Matt's arm vanishes, leaving behind a dull ache, possibly a bruise.

As Steve leads them back to the kitchen area, Matt startles when Bucky's metal hand descends on the back of his neck. It could be interpreted be an affectionate touch, the way an older brother might grip a younger brother. But the metal hand is heavy and cold and Matt's hair catches a tiny bit in one of the plates as they shift. It's possessive and almost a little threatening. "Machka, you let yourself get shot-"

Steve snorts. "Bucky, he didn't-"

"You are no longer to patrol on your own." His voice is still that same familiar pitch coming from that same familiar person, but it's like a stranger is present. Someone they've met but are not entirely comfortable with. Steve gets out a bowl, clatter of ceramic. Then the bright notes of the silverware clinking together. 

Matt sits and Bucky sits next to him. Still a little too close. "What do you propose I do instead?"

"I will accompany-"

"No!" Steve's voice is a little too loud for the kitchen, echoes uncomfortably in the apartment and leaves tension in it's wake.

"The armor," Matt remembers. "The new armor, we'll skip the chaperone if I wear it." He can just imagine going on patrol only to have Bucky show up, getting hurt or hurting someone else.

Bucky sighs again, somehow managing to sound even more put-upon. "Простота́ ху́же воровства́," he mutters to himself. "Stubborn."

When Matt wakes up, Jarvis quietly announces the time, date, weather, and Bucky's location. One in the afternoon, November 14th, high of 56 and overcast, and with Bruce Banner. It seemed invasive at first and, at times, Bucky still panics over being watched by an omnipresent figure, but Tony and Jarvis both promised the AI would not be actively monitoring on either Steve or Matt's floors when he's there. With his safe spaces and the safe word he and Matt had agreed on before, he's willing to let Jarvis keep an eye on him on his guardians' behalf. 

Matt's floor is silent, peaceful. His side hurts, worse than it did the night before, but he ignores it in favor of routine. Stretching, meditation, shower, breakfast. As he peruses his dresser drawers, fingers brushing his t-shirts neatly folded, Matt asks, "Jarvis, is Steve available?"

After a moment, Jarvis replies. "Captain Rogers is currently with Agent Romanov and Agent Hill but says he is free to speak. Would you like to speak to him directly?"

"Please." Another brief pause, then Steve's voice fills the room. It's a warm, affectionate voice and it sounds even better amplified. No wonder they always ask him to make speeches or be on television.

"Everything okay?"

Matt grins as he tugs his shirt on over his head. "Everything's a-okay. I just wanted to let you know I'm planning on leaving the building for a bit. Getting lunch. Want me to bring you anything back? I'm going to that place you like."

A laugh. "There's a lot of places I like. It's New York. In the future. You'd have to be more specific. But no, I'm good, thanks." An odd sound, like heavy static but slow, then Steve's voice is speaking but so muffled he can't make it out. The way it sounds when someone is covering the phone microphone with their hand. Is he on his phone? The sound is gone and Steve is back. "Natasha insists I tell you she said hi. And to bring her a dessert back. She likes fruity things. Or coffee things." Natasha's voice is barely audible in the background. "Yep, got it, no chocolate. Wait, really?"

More muffled distant speaking, so Matt interrupts. "Got it. Bucky's with Bruce for the moment. I'll be back in an hour or two." He buttons his jeans and grabs his favorite hoodie and coat from the hallway closet. 

"Sounds good!" Steve hangs up, but not before Matt hears him starting up on the virtues of chocolate again.

It's cold out, the lack of sun makes the wind sharp on his face. But it's relatively calm outside, people just going about their business, being people. Inside the cafe, corny French accordion music plays over the speakers and he can smell a dizzying array of foods being cooked, hears them sizzling and bubbling, hears a knife on a cutting board and a blender and the oven timer. He's escorted to a small booth.

It isn't until he's ordered coffee and pulled his book out that he feels the skin on the back of his neck prickle. Someone's watching him.

Pretending to be oblivious, he slides his fingers over the lines, but really he focuses on the sounds around him. It's chaotic, voices all speaking up to be heard over each other, utensils and plates and glasses, phones going off, menus flapping, the door ringing as people come in and go out with rustling plastic bags or sloshing lattes. The smells don't help either, but Matt takes his time, breathes deep. Gunpowder. Faint, but it's there.

His pulse spikes. The shooter took out a roomful of men just last night, is he here to do the same thing? Is he targeting Matt? The waitress brings his coffee, sets the little stand of creamer and sugars down; she lifts her pad and pen, the pencil tip grazing the thin paper with a dry scratch.

"Just coffee today. Thank you." Matt's starving but he needs to leave. Needs to get away from these people just in case.

Tucking his book back into his messenger bag, Matt pours cream into the coffee and stirs. He can't let on that he knows, can't spook the shooter into action. The coffee burns his lips and tongue. He digs a five out of his wallet and sets it on the table, takes another sip. He counts in his head each passing second, each minute. Ten minutes seems safe.

His phone chirps and Matt pulls it out. A text. The phone reads it to him.

"From Steve Rogers. Don't forget Natasha's dessert. And one for Bucky."

Matt scrunches his nose, his glasses sliding down. Not getting Natasha her dessert feels like a potentially lethal decision, but a necessary one. He loops the bag over his head, across his chest, and heads to the door. Cane tapping. He goes out of his way to bump into chairs in the crowded cafe and trip over a few purses or legs.

Outside, the wind is still going and thankfully Matt is downwind. He walks slow to appear cautious, but the door doesn't open, the bell doesn't ring, so he speeds up. By the time he's on the same block as the Tower he's practically sprinting. No footsteps, no gunpowder. First stop, Tony's lab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Простота́ ху́же воровства́: a fool can do more damage than an enemy (Russian proverb) (literally, simplemindedness is worse than thievery)
> 
> I'm getting carpal tunnel surgery on the thirteenth! What!! I'm actually sort of nervous...


	27. A Tiger by the Tail

As Matt heads towards the common room, he hears a new voice. It's almost time for Bucky's appointment, they usually meet the Worths here before the therapists and Bucky head to Steve's floor for privacy. 

He hears Steve but, instead of the Worths, there's a new voice. Male, higher range, east-European accent.

"-have a letter from them, explaining my background and credentials. They unfortunately had a family emergency but were concerned about James."

When Matt turns the corner into the room, he doesn't smell Bucky anywhere, his particular blend of ozone and soaps and pheromones. Also unusual.

Paper rustles in Steve's hands. "Matt, this is Dr.-?"

"Müller." Hiss of air, rustle of soft fabric. Presumably the man is holding his hand out to shake. Matt neglects to carry his cane around in the tower but still wears his tinted glasses. It doesn't take long for the other man to realize his mistake. He doesn't apologize, simply drops his arm and clears his throat. "I've been sent by the Worths to help James during their absence."

"He prefers the name Bucky," Matt offers. He's a little put off by the formal air of the man before him, he wonders if Bucky will be able to open up to him. "Have you worked with children before?"

A small pause. "I must admit I do not have much experience working with children. I served as a psychologist for the United Nations, however."

"I... I'm not entirely comfortable with this," Steve says. He's holding the papers in his hands tight enough that they make a continuous crinkling sound. "I'd like to speak to the Worths."

"I understand. Their daughter has suffered a stroke, they're with her, I believe they're in one of the Dakotas? We're friendly in a more professional capacity so I'm not quite sure-"

"Jarvis," Matt interrupts. "Are you able to confirm this man's identity?"

"Performing facial recognition, Mr. Murdock."

Müller's heart speeds up a little, one shoe scuffles along the carpet as he takes a step back. "Is that..."

"Artificial intelligence," Steve says. "Jarvis sort of runs things around here, I guess. Oh, don't worry, he doesn't have access to my floor where you'll be talking to Bucky. You'll have privacy."

"Thirty point photometric and geometric match to Dr. Eric Müller."

"Thank you, Jarvis." Matt chews his bottom lip for a second, tilts his head in Steve's direction. "Seems legit."

Steve sighs, stretches until there's a pop from his spine, rubs the back of his head. It's been a rough few days for all of them. Bucky's had difficulty switching back from the soldier, been unable to sleep, instead performing eerie bed checks to make sure Matt isn't out patrolling. Several times now, Matt's heightened senses have woken him up to a silent looming presence standing over him, watching. Steve, as a result, has been sleeping poorly as well, waking up at odd hours in a panic, rushing to make sure Bucky isn't out of bed.

After a minute, he nods, Matt can hear the particular creak of his muscles, the sound of his hair flopping onto his forehead. "Yeah, let me show you the way up."

When the two men leave, Matt lets a few seconds pass before calling out. "They're gone, Buckaroo."

Bucky unfolds himself from a nearby linen closet. Blankets and extra pillows are stashed there, how Bucky managed to fit his considerable bulk inside is a mystery. He walks up to Matt, stands close to him, muscles tense, body rigid. The soldier.

"Didn't want to meet the doctor?" Matt asks. No response but then Bucky's hand is sliding in his. The touch is so out of character for the soldier that Matt jumps. "I like the suit Tony made. Thank you."

"It's much safer," Bucky murmurs. His grip is tight, his hand clammy. His pulse is hammering against Matt's palm. "I..." His fingers twitch. "I don't like this Müller. I am willing to work with the Doctors Worth."

"You won't speak to him at all?"

Before Bucky can open his mouth, Jarvis interrupts. "Mr. Murdock. Forgive me, but there's been a shooting at a hospital. A member of the Irish mafia, Elliot Grote, was there but escaped. You asked for notifica-"

"Are the police there yet?" Matt interrupts. Grote is the only survivor from the massacre in Hell's Kitchen the other day.

"They are on their way."

Matt squeezes Bucky's hand again before letting go. "I have to go, Buck. Gonna try out that suit. Give the new doctor a chance huh? He's with Steve."

Swallowing hard, Bucky nods, hair brushing his shoulders, before remembering to vocalize for Matt's sake. "If I must." Knuckles crack and plates whine as he clenches his fists.

The suit is stiff, the bulletproof portions almost too thick, but Matt know he still has full range of mobility from testing it out. It only feels awkward compared to his previous uniform. As Matt grabs his clubs, he passes a hand over his forehead, feeling self-conscious. Tony made a few stylistic choices based on Matt's nickname is the papers. He's not entirely sure he appreciates the devil horns. 

The hospital is a dead end. He's too late, again. He lingers in the shadows, listening, and sure enough the police chatter makes it sound like the same man. One heavily-armed man with the firepower and ability to take out an entire room full of Irish mob, but in the hospital the only people he shot were people coming after him. Matt needs to find Grote, protect him from this single-minded killer.

On the hospital roof, Matt stands on the edge, listening, hoping for any signs of the shooter or Grote. The breeze brushing his jaw lets up for a minute and Matt can smell it. Gunpowder. Heavy metallic sparking smell, burning his sinuses. 

Matt spins, dives down and away, sure enough the sound of a handgun fills his ears. Pulling one of his clubs out, Matt flings it at the other man, hears it hit, a solid meaty sound. The man grunts.

"New look, huh? Don't care for it," he growls, voice on the border of feral.

Matt's side is throbbing, he grits his teeth and launches himself at him, throwing punches. The man snarls, blocks as best he can but he's better with firearms than fistfights. His gun clatters to the rooftop, he blocks with his forearms, panting, before throwing a few punches himself, heavy swings that are slow enough for Matt to dodge.

Abruptly the shooter howls, an animal sound, and runs at Matt, launching himself and sending them both rolling. Fists rain down on Matt, most of which he can block, but then he's striking his torso and he can feel when the stitches split. Wincing, Matt grabs the other man's arm, twisting it, is reaching for his face, hoping to make him flinch enough to flip him off, but instead he hears the rasp of metal on cloth. 

The shooter's speaking, but then there's a gunshot, pain blossoms on Matt's forehead, agony, his ears are screaming and he feels dizzy.

Everything is gone. The world is gone, the ringing in his ears combined with the pain effectively block all sensory input. It's like being a kid again after the accident, trapped in himself with no escape. He's being jostled, moved, he wonders if he's going to die now. Instead, the dizziness intensifies as he's being hoisted up and he lets the blackness on the edges of his brain roll in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you guys know who the characters I'm introducing are but I'm not gonna give anything away on purpose, just in case. So "Müller" it is!
> 
> Müller is lying about the Worths. They're fine, just tied up somewhere but otherwise unharmed. They belong to Lauralot, I'm just borrowing them (thank you!). She did say they have a daughter (she's also fine, he lies a lot).
> 
> Oh! Also, he knew something was odd about Bucky's therapy, given the choice in doctors. He wasn't able to access any files, though (the Worths are tough and refused to help! Okay maybe they got roughed up a little... sorry, aughhh). Anyhoot. He didn't know the exact circumstances of Bucky's recovery and so was seriously shocked. 
> 
> AND! He chose a psychologist based on his appearance. He chose a man that he most closely resembled, then he used some minor prosthetics to make it perfect.
> 
> And major MAJOR shoutout to Lauralot for the awesome chats we've been having AND for totally helping me figure out where to go with this story arc! :DDDDDD
> 
> It's not a long chapter but I needed the chapter break before the next part. Promise I'll get it up before my surgery!! I'm super excited about this arc!


	28. An Incomplete Thought

Matt wakes up to pain and cold and the sound of chains. The ringing in his ears is gone, he can hear distant traffic, the sounds of the city, and talking. The shooter's low rough voice and another's panicked voice. Matt strains against the chains, they're tight, barely enough room to shift, jingling as they scrape the brick Matt is tied to. 

Matt stops, panting, a wave of dizziness flipping his stomach. He realizes there's a tapping against his wrist, insistent, and this time the dizziness and panic make him gag. Tony installed a haptic notification system in one of Matt's gloves, in cases of emergency it would tap him, letting him know he needs to get back to the tower. Because the only emergencies they use it for are ones involving Bucky.

Pulling at the chains, straining, Matt can't help the yell that comes out of him. His brain is swimming now, he's getting disoriented, he needs to calm down, but all he can think about is Bucky. Matt knows he might die, knows he needs to focus on the here and now, focus on why the shooter brought him here, but he can't. He needs to go. Now. 

The shooter stops talking and the other man whimpers. Voice is vaguely familiar. Grote, Matt guesses.

"I need to go," Matt states. He refuses to beat around the bush. The tapping on his wrist continues, whatever happened is serious. Really, really serious. "My-" he starts, brain tumbling. "My son, something's wrong-"

"Shut the hell up," the shooter says. "You think you can just walk away? You keep showing up, hassling me, you think you get to just go when you wanna go?"

"So, what?" Matt snaps. "You're going to kill me?"

The shooter snorts. "I should. Make it easier, that's for sure." The other man, Grote, whimpers again, his voice is low, closer to Matt's level, probably on his knees. The tang of blood is heavy in the air.

"What the hell are you trying to do anyway? Shooting all these people!" Matt snaps. He can't help it, he knows arguing won't get him out of these chains but he can't help it. He needs to make him see reason. "Whatever happened, killing doesn't make it right!"

There's a scuffling sound, Grote grunts and collapses on the roof, gasping for air.

"You think you're better than me, huh? Think playing schoolyard boss is gonna work, punch some bullies then go on your merry way? Bullshit! Half measures!" He picks something up, it scrapes for a good second, it's long and metal. Smells of oil, gunpowder. Rifle.

Matt tenses, gritting his teeth, testing the chains again. There has to be a weaker link, some flaw he can use. Blood oozes out of the wound on the side.

"Let me tell you something, Red. I got a plan. I'm not unloading on just anyone, the people I go after deserve shooting. At least they're not back on the streets a week later, clogging the streets with their filth." He leans close, the rifle grinding against the ground. "I put 'em down, they stay down."

Matt grits his teeth. "They're people, they're people with families, children and wives and husbands and parents! They can be turned around!" He thinks of Bucky, trying so hard, trying to be more than his programming. The way he wants to be good, the way he is good, has always been good even when he was forced to be bad.

"Not everyone can be saved," the shooter snorts. 

Without thinking, Matt kicks out, connects with the man's knee. He drops his rifle to catch himself. Useless gesture, small victory. Still makes Matt feel better.

The shooter barks, almost a laugh. "Touched a sore spot?" He gets to his feet, grabs his rifle and sets it down a little ways off. Smell of oil and metal is heavier over there. An arsenal. "This man here, this piece of shit?" He grabs Grote, drags him along the ground.

"I don't wanna die!" Grote shrieks, so the shooter kicks him.

"Don't kill him!" Matt yells. 

"You think he can turn around? How 'bout Grotto here gives you some background info, huh?" Another kick and the man wriggles, groaning. "Tell the man what you did."

Grote's voice is hysterical with fear. "I didn't do nothing, I'm nobody! I drive the cars!" Whip of hand in the air, the sound of skin hitting skin. Grote falls over. "I'm sorry, I, I didn't know! Stop! I didn't know!"

A punch, a nastier one. Grote gags.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I had to, they told me to do it, I shot him, please-" A kick, this time Grote screams.

"Go on," the shooter snarls.

"Stop talking!" Matt yells.

"I, I didn't know she was in there, please, it's not my fault, she wasn't s'posed to be there-"

"One batch," the shooter mutters. "Two batch, penny and dime."

A sharp explosion, horrible, final.

Matt leans back against the brick, reeling. He shot him, he shot Grote. He killed him without even a second though. Hanging against the chains, Matt can't do anything but blink. A soft ringing in his ears, the gunshot started it up again. He shot him. The tapping on his wrist stops. That's worse, somehow. 

"You got a son, huh, Red?"

His voice barely penetrates the ringing. Matt tilts his face in the shooter's direction but there's nothing to say, his mind is a spinning blank.

The shooter crouches in front of Matt again, rubs his face, skin rasping against his stubble. "I did, too. Once. Daughter, too." He sighs, stands, knees pop softly. The strike to Matt's head is sudden and he's out like a blown lightbulb. 

Hands are on his face. Muffled voices. The ringing is muffled, too. Everything is so quiet. The mask is off, he grabs the hands touching him and squeezes them. He's terrified. He can't hear.

There's a louder voice, still hazy but familiar. Steve. The hands on his face are familiar, he smells familiar. Steve. Steve is here. He's probably safe if Steve is here.

He tries to ask what happened but there's no sound. He yells but there's no sound, none at all now. He yells again, he screams, no, no this can't happen. He bangs his head down on whatever he's laying on, hard surface, it throbs but there's no sound. 

Steve grabs his upper arm and cups the back of his head. Trying to stop him from hurting himself. Everything is too close right now, it's claustrophobic, he's stuck inside himself, so he struggles, pushing him away, he wants to run, wants to run away from the silence.

The grip around him tightens, Steve lifts him up in a bear hug. It's so much worse, but after a moment he's too tired and dizzy to struggle anymore. He says Bucky's name but he can't hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shifted events around, obviously. No big stairwell fight cuz that would be CRAZY hard to write. Lol
> 
> Another shorty chapter, sorry. I could have probably meshed this and the last one together but the chapter breaks really help me mentally with how the story is going.


	29. Coming to a Complete Stop

Sound comes back slowly as Steve wipes at his face with a wet cloth. Smells like iron, a bloody nose. They finally let Matt sit up, feels like a table, cold, one of the metal ones in Tony's lab. He smells Tony's cologne, Natasha's perfume, Clint's dog fur, Bruce's tea. Everyone's here but, as the quiet sounds of the room start rushing in again, no one's talking.

Grabbing Steve's wrist, Matt lifts his head and turns it back and forth, trying to pinpoint the few sounds coming from the room.

"Matt?" Steve asks, and his voice is mostly audible. "Can you hear?" He's wound up tight, his voice is on the edge of an extreme emotion, tears or violence. Something's gone very badly. 

Instead of answering, Matt swivels his head again. It makes him a little dizzy but it's worth it because he can hear Steve's heartbeat. It's coming back. "Bucky?"

Heartbeats. Four more, all leaping to a gallop as they turn their attention to him. 

Huge tree trunk arms wrap around Matt, squeezing too hard. Steve draws a shuddering breath. "He took him, by the time we heard Bucky yelling it was too late, Jarvis recorded from the stairwell and got bits and pieces, by the time Tony and I got upstairs it was too late-" Another shaky breath and Matt finds he's holding his own, he's choking on the lump in his throat. He squirms slightly and Steve drops his arms. "He-" Steve begins, but he has to turn and walk away. His hand smacks the wall as he leans against it. 

Natasha takes up the thread of the story. She's calm, her voice icy. "Bucky didn't respond to us. He fought us off, protected Müller, they escaped with Tony's jet. The good news is we can track them, the bad news is they're still in flight over the Pacific. We found prosthetics in the room, Jarvis used facial recognition from the video when they left. His name is actually Helmut Zemo."

"The recording, what did they say?"

Bucky's voice is unmistakable and for a second Matt almost leaps to his feet before he realizes it's the recording. Bucky is screaming. It's muted, from a distance. Then silence. Brittle crashing noises, he's guessing it's Tony coming in through the window. Bucky's roaring, more crashing, wood splintering as the door shatters. Müller--Zemo--is quietly speaking to Bucky, telling him to get to the stairs. Steve shouts Bucky's name. There's the clang of the shield. The recording stops. 

"Zemo doesn't speak again after this," Natasha says. "We don't know what he did to force Bucky to help him."

"Got another plane on the way," Tony interjects. "I have a jet in Malibu, it's hidden under the house, all very covert. It'll be here in a sec."

Matt turns towards Steve, he can hear his stomach roiling, his teeth grinding, his muscles screaming in tension. "How did I get here?"

"Found you outside," Tony replies. "Dumpster behind the Tower."

"You're welcome," Clint says, sounding strangely proud. For a moment, Matt wonders what the archer was doing with the dumpster.

So the shooter dropped him off at home. He thought for sure the man was going to kill him. Was it a warning? If you bother me again I'll shoot you like a shot Grote? 

Metal clang on the floor, another. Tony must still be in his suit. "Jet's here in five. Suit up."

Everyone hustles out of the lab, off to grab whatever it is they need. Weapons. Uniforms. Matt climbs unsteadily to his feet. Tony's the last one out of the room, feet clanking. No, not quite the last one. Steve's still by the wall, breathing fast and shallow.

"Steve," Matt murmurs, trying to be gentle but authoritative. "Help me to the plane."

Like waking up, the other man stirs and unfolds slowly, his eyes blink rapidly, audibly. "You, you can't go. You're hurt. There's a doctor coming."

"Bruce is a doctor. I have to go." There's a wet click as Steve opens his mouth but Matt barrels on. "This is Bucky. I'm going."

Steve doesn't even hesitate, he gently grasps Matt's bicep and guides him towards the door. 

The jet is solemn, no one is talking. Only the rushing roar of the engines fills the space until Tony pipes up from the front of the plane.

"They landed in Siberia. We'll arrive in less than an hour."

Steve slides on the bench, angling his body towards Matt. "Please stay in the plane."

Matt wants to argue, every inch of him is ready to leap out of the plane and rush headlong to Bucky's side, but he knows he would just be a liability. He doesn't want to slow Steve down, force him to babysit. "Bring him back." He leans closer for emphasis, gritting his teeth. "Bring him back safe, Steve."

When they land, as the others file off of the plane, Natasha leans down next to Matt. "We'll find him." She sounds confident, at ease, and it's almost comforting.

When they're gone, Matt moves over by the entrance, ignoring the wave of nausea that follows. Counts every second. Five minutes pass, ten. Twenty. They didn't give Matt one of the comms, they didn't want to worry him, but this is worse. He has to physically hold onto the bench to keep from bolting out of the plane. 

It's a little over thirty minutes before he hears a noise. It's Steve, he has a very specific tread for someone his size. Matt launches off of the bench, he doesn't care, doesn't feel the wind and snow, fights through the nausea and dizziness, only stumbling slightly. Steve's arm circles around him, supporting him, and Matt is silently grateful for the assistance. They're both icy cold, so Matt pulls him towards the jet. 

Back on the plane, Matt settles back on a bench and tracks Steve as he walks to a metal locker, digging through it. Neither mentions Bucky. 

"Zemo's gone. There's five empty tanks inside. Tons of files, all related to Winter Soldiers."

Matt frowns. He's afraid of the answer to his real question, so instead he asks, "Soldiers? Plural?"

Settling on the bench, Steve wraps a blanket around Matt. "Yeah, plural." Soft sigh of plush fabric as he wraps a blanket around himself. 

"Where's Zemo?" Matt demands. He wants nothing more than to go home with his family, curl up on the couch, watch Disney movies. Matt's shivering, unrelated to the cold. He wants his family back. 

"No trace. He didn't take the jet so we can't track him." There's a quiet burst of sound, Steve's comm goes off, sounds like Natasha. "We have to go through all this information, we don't know what we're dealing with, if they've had some kind of serum-"

"Where is he?" Matt blurts out. He grabs at Steve, gets a fistful of blanket. "Where is Bucky?"

Steve's careful Captain persona, his dry authoritative shield, crumbles. Matt sees his bulky form sag, his head drop between his shoulders. "He's not here. Zemo still has him." He's leaning so far forward, Matt's convinced his clenched fist is the only thing keeping him upright. "This is my fault, I let him right in the damn front door-"

"Stop it!" Matt yanks on the blanket. "We can both feel guilty later, I need you to focus and figure out where Bucky is!"

They both sit in panicked, miserable silence, but it's only for a moment. When Steve finally goes back to investigate the files further, he's convinced Matt to lay down on the bench and buried him under a mountain of blankets. But Matt can't sleep, the pain is too great and his mind is racing. Steve may have let Zemo in, but who convinced Bucky to talk to him. Who left Bucky behind with him? It doesn't take long before he's rolling off of the bench and walking out the jet's door. He can hear distant sounds, familiar voices conversing, Steve giving orders, so he walks towards it. He's going to find a way to help. He has to.


	30. Transformation Incomplete

Well, you're definitely injured," Bruce states wryly, checking the wounds on Matt's forehead. Between being shot and pistol-whipped, his skull feels like a loose collection of shattered china. "I can't honestly say more than that without an X-ray. We can take the jet? Find the nearest town? Get you looked at?"

"Not yet." Matt tries not to frown, moving his face means moving his forehead which means agony. "I'll be okay."

Bruce sighs, taking a step back as Matt gets up from the chair. "You might not have noticed, but you did lose your hearing. I guess that wasn't you having a panic attack back in Tony's lab."

As they leave the medical room in the bunker, Matt takes Bruce's arm, grinning. He often forgets how sarcastic Bruce can be.

The bunker is large and filled with all manner of scientific and medical equipment, a maze of cement and iron bars. Steve filled him in last night on what they've discovered so far in the files: an experiment to reproduce the success the soviets had with Bucky.

Five diverse people, injected with something akin to the super soldier serum, trained for maximum brutality and loyalty. Frozen after repeated failures to obey. Given up as a lost cause. Videos of Bucky, the Winter Soldier, being forced to spar with them over and over again until he can't get up off of the ground.

No mentions of Zemo, however. In fact, as Natasha and Jarvis dig deeper into the man's digital trail, it turns out he has no obvious links to Bucky. He's from Sokovia, a war-torn country, and was a member of their elite death squad until his family died in a bombing. He dropped off the grid a bit after that, popping up all over the world via plane tickets and credit card purchases. 

They've only stayed one night but Matt feels like his skin is crawling. What if Zemo and Bucky are in the US again, what if Bucky escapes and tries to go home? Sam and Foggy promised to take turns visiting the tower and look for signs of him, which helps ease Matt's anxiety. But he can't do much here, the files are mostly on paper and he doesn't have his reading machine with him. Instead, he hauls the materials everyone has already looked over to the jet.

And when not doing that, he meditates and tries not to think. When he thinks, he dwells. Running over it all in his head. Tries to remember. Were there any signs that "Müller" wasn't who he claimed to be, was there anything he could have picked up on? Could he have stopped this before it even started?

In the main room, the air is still stale, the broken pods that contained the soldiers still hissing cold air from rusted tubes.

Steve calls Matt over. 

"There's a trigger phrase," Steve murmurs. "We found a video, no audio. Natasha was able to read the handler's lips but most of the time he has his back to the camera. Bucky struggles at first then just goes blank. The handler had a book... Matt, Zemo had that book with him at the tower."

Matt takes it in, reeling. Trigger phrases. How many people in the world know the combination of words that renders Bucky into a blank machine. How many people know how to strip his humanity away.

Footsteps. Clint's lightweight boots, his orangey shampoo, his slow easy pulse. "Hey, Bruce and I are gonna borrow Matty. He's got a 'traumatic brain injury.' Should probably see someone other than a physicist."

"I'm also a biochemist, thank you." Bruce's voice carries from a yard or so away. Apparently he's been eavesdropping. And is not above enlisting help when someone doesn't listen to him. Then again, neither is Clint, the tattler. 

Steve's full attention is a physical force, an uncomfortable pressure, making Matt flush awkwardly. "Traumatic brain injury?"

Clint shrugs, the straps of his quiver creak.

"Go see a doctor," Steve snaps. Full commander now. Voice full of earnest vibrato. "Clint speaks Russian, he can translate. When you get back, we'll try to finish loading materials to bring back. Hop on it."

Matt grits his teeth, doesn't bother trying to hide his irritation, but lets Clint guide him off to the jet. If he's honest with himself, he does need a doctor: his blood pressure has been unstable, the dizziness comes and goes, he woke up to another bloody nose. And it will help distract him from Bucky's absence. 

After the lifeless air of the bunker, it smells shockingly fresh outside, cold and clean. Like it's scouring his lungs. Clint opens the door to the jet, Matt steps in and stops. Someone is inside. A racing heartbeat. And a familiar metallic trill. Clint's speaking, something anecdote about a medical train, but Matt can't hear it, every inch of his being is focused on that sound.

Bucky's seated on the bench across from the door. It's cold in the jet and Matt can hear his muscles twitch as he shivers, his teeth chattering.

Matt sits next to him, pulls him close, rubbing his back and arms but he's stiff, it's like hugging a statue or a block of wood. He's still dressed in the jeans and sweater he was wearing when Zemo took him, no coat. 

"Oh, Jesus," Clint mutters, coming to a halt when he sees Bucky. 

Bruce inhales sharply. "I'll get the first aid kit." 

Bucky isn't responding to any of them. He just sits and shivers. 

"Buckaroo?" Matt whispers to him, trying to coax a response out. He wants him to hug back, curl up in his lap, make a noise, anything. He kisses the side of Bucky's head, he can smell dried and fresh blood, hear the creak of a few broken bones. Matt's eyes well up, the tears freeze on his cheeks. "I'm so sorry, honey, I am so, so sorry. You're safe now." 

Bruce crouches down in front of them and it takes all of Matt's self control not to tell him to get away. He has the first aid kit, smell of alcohol and bandages and plastic in his hands. "Bucky, is it okay if I clean up your face a little? You're bleeding."

Bucky always liked Bruce, took comfort in his calm and sensitive demeanor, so his reaction is unexpected. His back straightens, he jerks out of Matt's arms. He's making a small noise, not quite audible, rasping panicked breaths as his chest hitches. Other than that, he remains still. 

"Get Steve," Matt tells the other two. Clint races off of the jet. Meanwhile, Bruce quietly takes a seat away from them, taking the kit along. Matt ignores him. Turning back to Bucky, he reaches to hug him again, finds himself hesitant. Maybe he doesn't want to be touched right now. Especially not by the person that did everything but shove him at his kidnapper. "Honey, do you want to come inside? Warm up? Are you hungry?"

No response. Matt waves at Bruce, hoping to get his attention if he doesn't have it already. "Is there something to eat here?"

"Some granola bars," Bruce murmurs as he mulls it over. He gets to his feet and Bucky shudders. As Bruce rustles through some of the lockers, Matt slides his arm around Bucky's shoulders, giving him the space and time to give an indication if he doesn't want physical contact. Bruce sets down some blankets and granola bars next to Matt.

By the time Bucky is draped in two blankets and Matt has unwrapped a bar that Bucky silently ignores, Steve is racing onto the jet.

"Bucky," he gasps, hauling the impassive man off of the bench into his arms. The blankets fall to the floor and his body goes limp, letting Steve manhandle him without any resistance, and it's somehow deeply terrifying. "I was so afraid, I can't-" Steve's voice cracks and he picks Bucky up so he's resting on his hip. "I can't go on without you again."

Matt turns his face away, face burning. He wasn't meant to hear that, he thinks. 

Clint pops in, letting a burst of icy wind in. "We're grabbing some critical-looking files, then we're gonna head back to the tower. Tony and Tasha and I will come back later for the rest."

The plane ride is agony. Matt goes to pet Bucky's back, Steve scoots closer to hold his hand, and Bucky flinches each time. Tears, hysteria, accusations, anything would be better than this. It's tearing Matt apart and he can't stop thinking how much worse it must be for Bucky. Wonders what Zemo did to him to make him afraid of his own family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The train Clint was talking about is the Matvei Mudrov, a medical train that travels to remote villages in Siberia to treat the sick and injured. Some villages are so small that they don't have a proper doctor and the nearest one is too far away. Most of the articles I read were from 2014, I'm not sure if it still is in operation. 
> 
> Ultron didn't happen in this storyline. What really happened to his family and why Zemo kidnapped Bucky will be revealed over the story arc. 
> 
> The orange smell is actually Clint's conditioner. Acidifying conditioners are great for hair because they smooth the cuticle down. Especially good for color treated hair. Natasha bought it for him because she was tired of his weird dried out hair because he used cheap nonsense. 
> 
> Another huge huge huge huuuuuuuuge shoutout to Lauralot for helping me figure out what to do when I hit a wall in this chapter. I'm so psyched to write the next couple of chapters!!!


	31. Brother Does Not Dream Anymore

The plane ride is unbearable and it doesn't get any better when they land. Tony waves them off, says Clint, Natasha, and Bruce can help him with the files. Steve takes the lead to the elevator, Bucky in between. Matt follows behind, leaving plenty of room so Bucky doesn't feel crowded. He keeps remembering the way Bucky moved to grab his wrist when Matt buckled him in, stopping at the last second, icy metal fingers brushing his wrist. 

In the elevator, Steve inhales sharply and it sets Bucky to shivering and tensing his muscles in an effort to stop. "You want me to carry you, pumpkin?"

The doors slide open. Bucky doesn't reply, heart racing, just waits until Matt finally walks into the hallway before following. 

Matt's apartment. Normally, Bucky would run for his toys, or put on one of his favorite sweaters, or ask to watch a movie. Instead, he stands awkwardly near the living room. Anxiety is a cloud around Bucky, a physical force that sends Matt to the kitchen. If physical contact is frightening, maybe Matt can offer comfort another way.

"You hungry, buckaroo?" Matt calls out. Did Zemo feed him? Did he give him food that made him sick all the time? Did he bother figuring out what Bucky could eat safely?

There's no response, so Matt tries to take mental inventory of what's in the fridge. He wants to make quesadillas, one of the first things he ever cooked for Bucky.

If they were faced with the soldier, there would be an unnerving silence, an absence of the small twitches and tics that humans involuntarily create. But this Bucky is noisy. He fidgets then stops himself. His arm sings as he rubs at his face. His heart is pounding and every so often his breath hitches, an aborted sob maybe. And yet. His body is so tense, every muscle and tendon noisy as it contracts and releases over and over again. When Matt looked at Bucky on the jet or the landing pad, the mercurial shape of him had walked with his back ramrod straight. Not exactly the little version, not quite. But maybe it is. Maybe it's the kid trying to be the soldier, trying to be strong and scary. But why would he still feel that way. He's back home. 

The sound of the bathtub faucet starts, rushing water like thunder. Steve's been shuffling around the apartment and now emerges from the bathroom. His voice is uncertain, cautious. "I'm running a bath for you, Buck. I left your warmer pjs in there for you."

A small sound escapes Bucky, a near-silent whimper that only Matt picks up. Bucky hesitates, then marches quickly to the bathroom, locking the door behind him. There's a faint clicking noise on the tile, he's dragging the hamper to the block the door.

Steve joins him in the kitchen, sagging against the wall. "What did Zemo do to him? Do you think it's the trigger words? Is it permanent?"

"We don't even know if he's actually changed," Matt says quietly. He can hear Bucky settling in the tub but no other sounds, he's just sitting in the water. "He might just be frightened. Did the police find the Worths?"

"They're safe. Cornelius is being treated for a broken arm, otherwise they're unhurt."

Matt rubs his mouth. He's trying not to panic. "We... probably shouldn't bother them yet? They were kidnapped. They need to recover." He almost sounds convincing. "Tomorrow. Maybe we should just leave a voicemail."

They both jump when Steve's phone rings.

"It's Tony," Steve says wonderingly. He sounds dazed. Their conversation clearly did not help either of them. 

As Steve answers the phone, Matt turns his attention to the bathroom. Finally movement, small splashes, hopefully he's cleaning himself. The smell of sweat and dried blood was a fresh reminder every time Matt inhaled that he failed him. There's also the quiet sound of crying, hiccuping breaths and little high-pitched sobs from the back of his throat.

Matt wants to go to him but doesn't know if he should. 

"He's taking a bath... No, he hasn't said what happened-... N-... Tony-..." The muffled chattering on the other end barrels along despite Steve trying to interject. "I don't know... Yep. Yep, I'll text you tomorrow morning."

Shoving his phone in his pocket, Steve sighs. "Tony thinks Zemo has a plan. He thinks-..." His voice is getting higher, choked off, emotion is strangling him. "He thinks Bucky might be a plant. He's turning Jarvis back on up here so he can monitor everything."

The bathroom door opens before Matt can reply. Humid heat billows out. If nothing else, at least Bucky will be warm now. 

"Do you want dinner now, Buckaroo?" Matt asks. "Anything you want."

"Bed." It's the first word they've gotten out of Bucky. Spoken so softly that Matt can't tell if he's lisping or not. Still not sure which side of Bucky they're speaking to.

Wiping his eyes surreptitiously, Steve turns to face Bucky, the back of his hand rasping against his skin. "We'll tuck you in. And you can have as many bedtime stories as you want."

Bucky climbs into the bed and under the covers, stretching out flat on his back. His heart is racing, his stomach rolling, and when Steve sits on the edge of the bed Bucky stops breathing, jaw clenched so hard his teeth creak.

"Bucky," Steve begins, but he stops. His own pulse is galloping. "I'm so sorry we let him in the tower. I'm so, so sorry he took you."

Shaking, Bucky rolls onto his side, facing the wall, and Steve covers his mouth, breath hissing through his fingers as he cries silently.

"We love you, Bucky," Matt offers, grabbing Steve's arm and pulling him to his feet. "It's okay if you're mad at us. We weren't careful and you got hurt because of it. I... I hope you can forgive us..."

Bucky's trembling silence is a knife to his heart, so Matt hauls Steve out of the room. Behind them, Bucky leaps to his feet and for a minute Matt's heart lifts, but the door just slams and locks.

In the hallway, Matt hugs Steve close and lets him cry and remembers when it used to be Bucky soaking his shirt with his tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always huge huge HUGE thanks to Lauralot for helping me with the plot and totally saving me from writer's block!!! Seriously I need to say it again because she had the BEST IDEAS for the plot. I'm so excited to torture everyone with the feels. 
> 
> My carpal tunnel surgery was postponed until the end of February! So... here's this chapter of pure suffering.


	32. You'll Tear Us Apart

Matt wakes up in stages. It must still be night, since Jarvis doesn't give him his morning update. He's on the couch, he let Steve crash in his bed so he could stay on this floor. There's someone near him, seated on the other end of the couch by his feet. Familiar smells and sounds, it's Bucky, sitting silently.

Muzzy from sleep, Matt lifts his head from the pillow. "Hey, Buckaroo," he says, smiling. "Nightmare?"

Bucky's silence is all wrong and Matt finishes waking up. And remembers. 

"Bucky?" he asks cautiously.

"He hit me," Bucky announces, voice soft. "When I wasn't big anymore. He hit me." The words are said matter-of-factly. Matt wants to reach out, wants to enfold him in a hug, but something about the uneasy energy of the room holds him off. Something is really wrong. "He had the other Soldiers hit me, too. When I couldn't be a Soldier."

Matt's eyes burn. When he finds Zemo, he's going to kill him without any qualms.

Bucky slouches, the shape of him curling in on itself, head practically between his knees as he rests his elbows on his thighs. His breathing is erratic, on the verge of tears. 

"Bucky," Matt whispers, testing the waters. He can't stay silent anymore. He won't force physical contact on Bucky but he has to say something, even if it worsens this already tense situation. When the other man doesn't respond in any way, Matt plunges on. "Zemo had no right. And I'm going to find him and make sure he can never hurt you again." Still no response. "We... your daddy and I really screwed up. You suffered because of it. It's okay to be mad at us."

Bucky whines then, a thready sound, and wipes his eyes with his flesh hand. "I hate you."

"I know," Matt says. He deserves this, it was his fault that Bucky got hurt. He deserves every minute of agony those three words bring. "It's okay."

After a minute, Bucky reaches out and sets something on the coffee table. He gets to his feet and goes back to his room. The door closes and the lock clicks.

Matt reaches out, hand shaking. He hadn't noticed Bucky was holding something. Running his fingers along the smooth wood and cold metal, he winces when he lightly cuts his index finger. A knife. 

He doesn't sleep the rest of the night and, thankfully, Steve is an early riser. 

"Should I cook?" Steve asks, yawning. 

Matt contemplates telling him about the previous night. But he thinks about the Hulk containment room in the basement. He thinks about Tony in his full suit, blaster ready. And, if he focuses, he can hear Bucky sniffling quietly in his bed, sheets rustling as he tosses. "I... don't know. This is... I don't know, Steve."

After a minute, Steve shuffles to the kitchen and opens the fridge, starts pulling out ingredients. Pantry opens, big soft weighty sound. Flour, probably. Pancakes. Matt sits in the dining room and puts his head in his hands. He thinks about the knife, realizes he hasn't put it away, and can't find the energy to try to sneak it into the drawer. 

Definitely pancakes from the smell. Blender howls, bananas and strawberries. Smoothies. 

Forcing himself to stand, Matt dances around Steve in the kitchen as he grabs plates and silverware. He sets the table. Finds himself standing at Bucky's usual spot, fingers tracing the edge of the cold plate. His mind is a blank. He's on the edge of a very big precipice and he can't tip over yet because this isn't about him. This is about Bucky. This is about helping Bucky first and foremost. And maybe helping him will keep Matt from plunging over that cliff edge.

Steve sets the smoothies down, goes back in the kitchen, grabs the pancakes and syrup. "Do you want me to get him?" he asks quietly. 

"No, no it's okay." Matt feels like he's waking up from a dream. Like he stepped outside of his own head for a minute. Berates himself for not staying focused.

The hallway seems inordinately long. When Matt knocks, all sounds behind the door stop. Even breathing.

"Your daddy made pancakes," Matt says in his kindest, lightest tone. Pretending like last night didn't happen. "Are you hungry?"

Rustling sheets, faintly creaking springs, footsteps on carpet. The knob rattles slightly, but the door doesn't unlock. Matt remembers this. He puts his hand on the knob.

"I can bring it to you, if you want to stay in your room?"

Running footsteps retreating. The bed groans as Bucky presumably jumps in, burying himself under the covers. "He said you'd t-try to drug me," he yells. 

Matt blinks. "Who... who said that? There's no drugs, honey, I just don't want you to be hungry." Though Bucky has been without his medications for a couple days now. Is that what he means?

"He s-said you th-think I'm b-bad..." Bucky's crying hard now, struggling to talk despite it, swallowing his sobs. "That's w-w-why you h-had him t-take me!"

"Oh, oh Bucky, no, honey no!" Matt feels a surge of dizziness wash over him, he feels like his head is unmoored from his body. "I swear to you, I would rather die than let anyone ever take you! We don't think you're bad!" He can hear Steve getting up, jogging over. Matt didn't mean to raise his voice but this is so much worse than he ever imagined. He didn't think Zemo would outright lie like this. "You're a good boy, you're so good and brave, we're both really proud of you! I swear we didn't give you to-" Matt falters. Because he did, sort of, didn't he. He did hand Bucky right over. Because he was distracted. 

"Zemo lied," Steve says, picking up where Matt trailed off. "We both love you more than anything in the world, Bucky. We just want you to be safe and happy. We didn't know who he was. I'm sorry." There's a soft thud as Steve leans his head against the door. "I don't know what to do. How do we fix this, Bucky?"

Silence from the other side of the door now. Heaving, wet breaths as Bucky silently cries to himself. Clearly he's done communicating. 

"We'll be here if you want to talk. Or if you need anything at all. We love you, pumpkin." Steve takes a few steps away from the door and, turning to Matt, freezes. "You've got a bloody nose- oh no, your head injury, I forgot..."

Behind the door, Bucky's arm shrills and Matt wonders if he heard Steve and is worried. He doesn't want to add to Bucky's misery by making him worry, but a tiny part of him takes heart from that. If Bucky still worries about him, maybe this can all be salvaged.

Steve takes Matt's arm and guides him to the living room, settles him in an armchair. "Don't move an inch. I'll bring a plate of pancakes over. Jarvis, can you ask Bruce to come up?"

"He looked at me in Siberia, he wanted me to see a doctor. I don't think there's a lot he can do?" Matt rubs at his upper lip, hoping he's getting all the blood off. 

Steve returns, takes Matt's right hand and guides it to the plate. The pancakes smell amazing, he has to admit. He sets the plate awkwardly on his lap and starts eating while Steve brings his own plate and sits on the couch. 

"Hey we should call the Worths," Steve says, cutting through the miserable silence laying over the apartment like a shroud. "Maybe Miriam would be willing to talk to Bucky." Without waiting for a response, he hops off of the couch and pulls his phone from his pocket.

There's a knock at the door while the phone rings. Matt opens it and Steve moves to the kitchen for privacy. Smell of tea, patchouli, dirty hair, fresh laundry. Bruce. 

"Damn, I forgot Steve called you, I'm sorry you came all the way up here," Matt sighs, rubbing his face with his hand. There's so much happening at once, it's all overwhelming. "I'm fine, just a nosebleed."

Bruce's voice is warm, it always is. "I wanted to make sure you were okay anyway, I don't mind. I, uh, I did some research and got you something." He pulls something out of his pocket, a rattling against plastic. Pills. Matt frowns and Bruce rushes on. "Don't get the wrong idea, it's just prescription Tylenol for the headaches. I spoke to a doctor friend of mine." Bruce folds his arms and ducks his head. "He also mentioned, uh, antidepressants-"

"What?"

"Temporary. Depression and anxiety can present after a concussion... and, given the situation, it might not be a bad idea..."

Matt grimaces. "Thanks for the painkillers," he says, taking the bottle and pocketing it. "I'll be fine. We're all be fine."

"Will you?"

Steve walks out of the kitchen, down the hall towards Bucky's room. Matt turns his head slightly, listening, and Bruce shuffles to the side to peer down the hall at Steve. Matt wonders how much snooping the other Avengers have done, if they're seen video or heard reports from Jarvis. 

Steve knocks at Bucky's door, tells him he has the Worths on the phone if he feels up to talking. After a few minutes of silence, Steve retreats to the bedroom, presumably to apologize to Miriam. 

Matt's heart drops, he'd really been hoping Bucky would be willing to talk to his doctors about what happened. "It'll be fine," he repeats, knowing Bruce won't believe him. 

A heavy, warm hand cups Matt's shoulder. "We're all here for you, if you need any help. Maybe... maybe he just needs some time."

"Sure," Matt replies without feeling. "Sure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure but it seems like Bucky comes out of the trigger-word-induced mode after some time? A direct flight to Siberia from New York would theoretically be 8 hours. I'm picturing Bucky waking up after two or three hours of just sitting around in the plane, extremely confused and frightened. In CW he doesn't seem to remember what he did after Zemo said the words. 
> 
> Post-concussive syndrome! It can include hearing loss, dizziness, nausea. It also can include depression, increased anxiety, concentration problems, and slowed reaction times. There's no real treatment unless there's bleeding on the brain. The symptoms can be treated, such as meds for the nausea and/or depression.
> 
> Matt isn't just suffering from post-concussive syndrome, though.
> 
> I don't know if it's common for doctors to prescribe antidepressants temporarily but mine did (it turned out to not be temporary, but at the time that was his intent). So if that's a weird thing, apologies.
> 
> As always, I appreciate all you readers for sticking with me and for your kudos and comments. It's so gratifying knowing people are enjoying this! Thank you!!!!


	33. Lions in a Cage

The next night, Steve is the one that wakes him up. On purpose. 

Matt took the bed this time, hoping Bucky wouldn't come out armed again, not with everyone as high-strung as they are. It felt nice, stretching out on the huge mattress, burrowing under his comforter.

Until a hand on his shoulder shakes him awake. 

"Bucky's on the elevator, he's headed for the lobby," Steve says, voice strangled with urgency. "Meet me there."

Matt rolls out of bed as quickly as he can, wide awake, but Steve's already out the front door. Dragging on his sweatpants, Matt calls out to the empty room, "Jarvis, where's Bucky now?"

"He is passing the tenth floor. There's been attacks on Agents Romanov and Barton, the attackers have been detained."

"Who are they?" Matt asks as he races, barefoot, down the hall.

"Unknown, though they are speaking Russian-" Jarvis begins, but Matt doesn't hear the rest of it. He's distracted by the heartbeat. 

There's someone in his apartment. 

Matt stops at the end of the hallway where it opens up into the living room, concentrates on the sound. They're close--kitchen--and holding perfectly still, every muscle relaxed to avoid unnecessary movement. An unsettling level of stillness on par with the Soldier. 

Soldiers. The ones from Siberia. Matt grits his teeth. He's not sure if he'll be able to stand up against someone that's been enhanced. He considers calling for Steve, but changes his mind. Bucky is priority.

"Come out," Matt commands, sliding his feet into a fighting stance, getting ready. "I know you're there."

Heartbeat speeds up. Footsteps as the soldier rounds the corner, standing in the dining room, staring at him. Not particularly big from the shape of them, but the air of silent menace is unmistakable. Killing intent. Goosebumps rise on Matt's arms and he shivers. 

The attacker says something in Russian, soft voice in a higher register with an icy rage behind it, possibly female.

"I don't-" Matt starts, but then she's launching herself at him, darting past the table and chairs. Matt dodges her first punch, barely dodges the second, catching a glancing blow off of his ribs. He counters as she's overextended, connects with a blow to the side, her kidney. She shrieks--it's a solid hit--and elbows him in the face, he turns his head at the last moment so it connects with his jaw instead of his temple. She's powerful, shockingly so, Matt wonders if his jaw is broken. 

The attacker grabs his throat and shoves him against the wall, squeezing. Matt claws at her face, she grabs one of his wrists in her free hand but he's able to get his other fingers in her eye. She drops him and backs away-

-the front door opens. Lemon and dog. Natasha throws something, it lands on the attacker and there's the sharp crackle of electricity.

The attacker falls to the floor, unconscious. Her slow even breathing tells Matt she isn't faking.

"Thank you," Matt coughs, throat raw. 

Clint kneels by the attacker and grabs her arms, putting something bulky around her wrists. "Special handcuffs for supersoldiers," he explains. Another set snaps around her ankles.

"Tony's dealt with his, he's putting them all in the Hulk playroom," Natasha says. "That's four down, one left. Plus Bucky." She's already headed to the door. "Jarvis, let Tony know there's one to pick up here."

"Sir is on his way up. Captain Rogers has engaged the last one in the lobby."

Matt bolts for the door, Natasha and Clint close on his heels. The elevator is already waiting for them.

The doors open and Matt hears Steve speaking. 

"It's okay, honey, please calm down. No one's hurt, okay? Please go find your uncle, okay?"

Matt follows his voice. Natasha and Clint take off in different directions, circling around. Steve is on the ground, holding down a wriggling Soldier, a very large man yelling furiously. 

"There appear to be no more intruders," Jarvis announces. "I've done a sweep of all the floors and found no unfamiliar infrared signatures."

"Here, hold his arms still," Clint says, jogging forward.

Matt refocuses his attention, now that he knows Steve is safe. Bucky must have been nearby as they arrived but he's clearly taken off. Matt listens for the familiar trill. And hears it, a little ways off, past the front security desks and the metal detectors, by the doors. "Jarvis, don't let him out!" He races down the hall, hears the squeak of Natasha's sneakers on the marble floor close behind. 

The doors rattle as Bucky yanks on them. 

"Bucky!" Matt yells. There's a row of metal detectors between them, blocking his path. "Step away from the doors." He hates resorting to giving orders, feels like he's betraying Bucky's trust. Behind him, Natasha moves slightly to the right, her fingers tighten around something metallic, it smells of electricity. 

"I have to g-go back!" Bucky moans, but he releases his grip on the handle. "He said I have to c-c-come back even if I fail!"

"You don't have to go back to him, you can stay here with your family."

Natasha's voice is much gentler than Matt would have expected. "Come home with us, крошка."

A sharp, shrill sound of metal plates and Bucky is hitting the doors. They're made with ballistic glass but under the relentless assault it begins to crack and shatter.

Matt races through one of the detectors and without thinking darts under Bucky's fist as he throws another punch; Matt wraps his right arm around Bucky's neck and grabs his left bicep, tightening the side choke hold without actually choking him. Matt's cheek is pressed up right again the metal arm, the bigger plates of the bicep flex and scrape his face. 

Bucky shrieks and tries to jerk away but, surprisingly, doesn't hit Matt, even though his left arm is free. "No! NO! I have to! I have to finish my mission! No!"

"Stop, pumpkin, you're okay" Matt says, not bothering to raise his voice over the panicked yelling. "We're gonna sit down now. Gently, come on-" He tries to lower them both to the ground but Bucky abruptly relaxes, his greater weight sending them crashing down. Matt winces, he landed badly on one leg on the hard floor, his knee starts throbbing.

At least Bucky is no longer screaming. Relaxing the hold even further, Matt rubs his cheek against Bucky's hair and keep murmuring soothingly. "You're safe, no one is gonna hurt you. I'll keep you safe. We caught the other soldiers so you don't have to go. No more missions, honey. You can stay here with me and your daddy and Tasha and your toys."

Trembling, Bucky whispers, "please don't make me sit in the chair." It bursts out of him in one terrified rush. 

Matt thinks about the files, the things Steve read to him. The way the Soviets and Hydra wiped Bucky's mind. The silent surveillance videos that Steve narrated, Bucky strapped in and his mouth open in agony. "Oh, no, Bucky. Honey, we will never ever do that. You never have to go in the chair again."

A hand rests on Matt's head and Steve is crouching next to them. Matt was so wrapped up in Bucky he didn't notice him approaching. "Zemo told you lies, whatever he told you about us, that we would drug you or put you in the chair, it's all lies. We love you and want you to be happy."

Bucky turns his head into his own arm and starts crying, gut-wrenching wails that start increasing in intensity until he's just silently screaming. Steve reaches out, gathering him up against his chest as he stands up. Bucky flings his arms around Steve's neck and Matt almost staggers with relief; he expected reluctance or even open hostility, but maybe Bucky's just too overwhelmed to keep it up anymore.

Natasha is waiting for them, Matt can't hear the others, they probably went ahead with the last soldier. Bucky must be aware enough to sense her because he closes his mouth, swallowing his cries, and his muscles tense, tightening his grip on Steve. "I'm going to check on the others," she says. "I think you should come along, you shouldn't be alone."

Matt thinks about his floor and realizes it doesn't feel like a safe haven the way it did before; it feels isolated and suffocating. The floor with the Hulk playroom has other rooms, ones set up for people who might want to wait for Bruce to change back. That sounds just fine right about now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arm_triangle_choke the kind of hold Matt gets on Bucky.
> 
> It's the Ducklings!!!!!! Lauralot and I have been talking a lot about them. And in this 'verse, they will have a soft spot for Killdozer. Just gotta figure out how to work that in... lol.


	34. First It Giveth

Matt tries to meditate. He's been trying to meditate for about half an hour now, but it's impossible. Bucky's shallow breathing from the couch keeps drawing his attention. 

They've got the waiting room to themselves. Steve's on his own floor to shower after spending an hour leaning against the door frame, watching over the discussion. Or interrogation.

The soldiers are in the Hulk playroom and Clint, Natasha, and Tony periodically ask questions through the shatterproof glass. They're taking it easy, just asking about Zemo and his plans, voices casual and calm. So not an interrogation, but the soldiers are definitely not free to go, so in a way it doesn't matter what tone of voice is used. It bothers Matt, even though he can offer no reasonable alternative. They did attempt murder, he supposes. But something still feels wrong, there's yet another shoe left to drop. The audible tension in Steve's body when he was here just confirmed that for him, the way he restlessly shifted his weight every time the knockoff super-soldier serum was discussed, the way he held his breath when Tony spoke.

The questioning, though, Matt can ignore. The soldiers aren't responding in the slightest, so it's just those three familiar voices repeating themselves over and over. White noise. But he can't ignore Bucky.

As soon as Bucky was placed on the couch, he'd gone limp, hair sighing as it brushed against the back cushion, metal arm offering the tiniest of songs. He hasn't moved much, just the occasional fidget or shuddering sigh. He also hasn't sought out comfort, asked for hugs or food or his stuffed animals. It eats away at Matt, he just wants to provide some measure of solace. It feels like all of this is his fault, and he can't figure out how to fix it. 

Instead, to keep himself calm, to try to help speed up his healing, he started meditating. Or trying to. It's not going well. He feels on edge, as if he can feel every atom of his skin vibrating. 

When Bucky slips off of the couch, bare feet hitting the carpet, Matt flinches. The response is so unexpected it catches him off guard, his brain takes a minute to catch up to Bucky tiptoeing into the hall.

Getting out of his armchair, Matt lingers behind the open door, listening. Bucky's not moving towards the elevator, he's not moving at all. Just standing by the enormous windows, his heart beating fit to burst from his chest. Presumably looking at the soldiers.

Clint and Natasha are retrieving food from the communal kitchen. Tony is asleep in the bedroom on this floor. Bruce is the only one awake and present, reading in the other sitting room, but he apparently doesn't see Bucky standing in the hall as there's no changes in sound from the room.

After a moment, a deep masculine voice is piped through speakers into the hall. Something in Russian. Jarvis promptly responds in Russian as well and, concerned, Matt steps into the hall. As he does so, Natasha's voice snaps out like a gunshot as she and Clint jog over from the elevators. Bucky whimpers and Matt goes to him, tentatively sliding an arm around his broad back; thankfully, Bucky doesn't pull away, instead turns to hide his face in Matt's neck.

"They told him to open the door," Natasha announces. She has something that smells warm and delicious in her arms. Bread and cheese and bacon and egg. "Bucky doesn't have authorization to open them currently."

Clint steps around them and walks into the room Bruce is in. "She told them to shut the hell up. They called Bucky names."

Bucky flinches against him, so Matt runs his hand up and down Bucky's back in time with his own breathing, hoping the rhythm might be soothing.

"We have breakfast sandwiches. With and without meat and cheese." Natasha also makes her way to the sitting room. "Clint brought the juice."

Matt's stomach is grumbling and he suspects Bucky's might be as well, since he apparently hasn't eaten since they got back. He gently guides Bucky into the room, listening to all the little background noises, letting both that and the vague fiery shapes he sees outline the setup of furniture. Bruce is on the couch, carefully sliding a sandwich from the tray of them onto his plate.

Matt tries to direct Bucky to the couch but he can't disentangle himself from the other man's grip. Every time he unhooks one of Bucky's hands, another is snaking around his arm, gripping the waistband of his sweats, or entangling their fingers. Matt smiles, surprised by the suddenly need to stay in contact, taking heart from it. It almost feels a little like forgiveness. 

But in the back of his mind, his own thoughts betray him, reminding him it's probably just a fear response and nothing to do with Matt. Nothing to do with absolution. 

Matt settles next to Bruce so Bucky will sit down on his other side, even if it is a little bit of a squeeze. "Do you want something to eat?" he asks. 

"Tasha made them! She hates cooking but she’ll make breakfast if I ask nice," Clint announces from the kitchen. He comes back, glasses clinking in his arms. "Who wants juice?"

Bucky doesn't respond, just goes limp against the arm of the couch. The only point of tension is the death grip he has on the hem of Matt's sweatshirt. After a minute of waiting for a response, Matt takes the plate Bruce silently hands him and a sandwich. He rips off a corner and holds it out to Bucky. 

When Bucky finally takes the piece, Matt takes a bite of the remaining sandwich, hoping it will convince Bucky it's safe to eat. Egg and bacon, no cheese. It's good. "Thank you, Natasha."

She hums acknowledgement, pouring herself a glass of juice, then she pours another and hold it out to Matt. Chewing and swallowing sounds fill the room, but Natasha just sips her drink. "So," she says finally. "We're going to need to feed them as well."

The soldiers. Matt is struck with a pang of guilt. When's the last time they ate? 

"The playroom has a two door setup. The one leading to the hall has to be securely locked before the second opens. So the big guy doesn't make a surprise entrance." Shame laces the edge of Bruce's voice, but he hides it with a kind of false mirth. And, Matt notes, he refers to the Hulk as a separate person. 

"Like an airlock in sci-fi movies?" Clint asks, surprised. "But if the Hulk breaks down one door, he can break the second, right? Can our guests break the doors down?" At this, Bucky shifts, a small unhappy sound trapped in the back of his throat. He hasn't eaten yet, the bite of sandwich cooling between his fingers. His flesh hand twists in Matt's shirt.

"Both doors are reinforced steel. They would slow the Hulk down long enough for people to evacuate, so I feel pretty confident the soldiers will have more trouble with them."

"So you leave food in the 'airlock' and open the inner door so they can retrieve it?" Matt asks. "What if they refuse to leave the airlock?"

Natasha sets her glass down, folds her arms. When she speaks, it’s directed at the ceiling as she tilts her head back. “I think we should take them the food. In person. We need to establish a rapport. Treat them like people.” Her body language is tight, tense, but her heart is steady and even. Matt remembers her reaching out to Bucky, the way she related to his traumatic dehumanizing past, and he wonders if maybe she also feels a similar empathy with these five soldiers. 

“I’d like to point out they might not know, uh, anything?” Clint interjects. “When were they frozen? Do they know what year it is? That there’s no more U.S.S.R? We need to tell them.” He shifts minutely towards Natasha, his voice a little sadder. “That’s how you break brainwashing and stuff. You have to give them all the information.”

They sit for a bit, everyone moving slower, trapped in their own bad memories and spinning thoughts. Matt turns his attention back to Bucky, not wanting to break the painful spell that’s come over the other three. He still hasn’t eaten, so Matt gingerly takes the piece of sandwich, depositing it on his own empty plate, then lifts his untouched glass of juice. Smells citrusy. Orange, to compliment breakfast.

Leaning close, Matt takes Bucky’s free hand and wraps it around the glass, petting the chilly metallic knuckles. “Please,” Matt whispers. “Just a little. You’ll faint if you keep this up.”

The elevator doors open and the distinct smell of Steve wafts in. His preferred shampoo and soap. His balletic tread. Comforting sounds and smells. As he walks towards the room, a familiar voice is piped in from the playroom. The woman’s. Angry.

Any feeling of comfort or relief is swept away and Matt’s stomach flips. Every muscle in his body clenches and he can’t breathe. His throat is closed, there’s no air. He hears Bucky whimper, distantly, and he realizes he’s standing. When did he stand up. Why does it feel like he’s drowning. It takes a moment to realize Natasha is saying his name. Matt inhales, deep, filling his lungs as best he can, but his heart is racing so hard it might burst out of his chest. Something, something is happening. Terror. Endless terror without end, a yawning maw of endless fear and pain that he’s about to tip-no, that he is falling into, he’s tipped over and now he’s falling and going to die.

“Breathe, Matty.” Clint is there, touches his elbow, the lightest touch, fingertips. “Keep breathing in and out. This is temporary. The feeling will pass.”

Bewildered, Matt stares at Clint, struggling to inhale. Exhale. Inhale. How could Clint possibly know. How does Clint know.

“It’s a panic attack,” Bruce says from the couch. “He’s right, it’ll pass. Do you need to leave? Go to your floor?”

Matt reaches back and touches the hand still desperately clutching his shirt; without a word, Bucky shifts his grip to accommodate, holding his hand. “I’m okay,” Matt gasps. “I’m okay.” That comforting smell is back, closer, and Matt’s brain grinds away, struggling to identify. Steve. Next to him. Clint moves out of the way as Steve rests his huge hand on Matt’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. All Matt can manage to do is say “I’m okay.” Doing anything seems impossible.

“Let’s go,” Steve murmurs in his ear. He continues quickly when Matt tenses at the suggestion. “We’ll go to the common floor. Sit on the couch. Do you want anyone else to come?"

"C... Clint..." Clint knew what was happening, he touched Matt's arm and told him to breathe. That doesn’t sound bad, actually. There’s no way he could go to his own floor. But the common space. That sounds okay. Nodding to himself, Matt squeezes Bucky’s hand again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god that was a long hiatus I'm sorry. Between the hand surgery and mental health problems, it's been a long couple of months. It’s also been hard getting back into the groove of this fic so if it’s stilted at all, I apologize. Also, I am a little overwhelmed with the huge plot points? Like why did I include so much ahahah??? Lol PLOT IS SO HARD. 
> 
> Anyway. The floor plan. Big hulk playroom. Then the hallway all along one side of it. There's windows between the playroom and the hall. The hall--on the other side--has plenty of large rooms. There's a kitchenette, a bedroom, a bathroom, and two sitting rooms. That way if anyone wants to camp out there while waiting for Bruce to change they can. Or if Bruce wants to nap/shower/eat immediately after changing he can. The layout bugged me so much I sketched it, here's a link http://fangirlingicizing.tumblr.com/post/159510445142/heyyyyy-i-gotta-post-this-here-so-i-can-grab-thes Matt and Bucky are in the room closest to the elevator. 
> 
> Also. I'm basing some of Matt's upcoming mental health on research and also on my own life with mental illness. But he's been through a lot more trauma than I ever have. So if anything sounds off, let me know? 
> 
> Breaking brainwashing! So, what resources I found online about it were… sketchy, like SUPER sketchy, at best. But the three key points I found were: 1) break isolation, 2) offer knowledge, and 3) help them accept their own thoughts and feelings. And let them make up their own minds about the facts you present. Clint is sad because he remembers how hard it was to bring Natasha in from the cold.
> 
> You all can probably guess why Steve is feeling tense about Tony in regards to the winter soldier serum… If you remember how the Soviets got ahold of it… UH OH… 
> 
> Also, I didn’t realize when I was writing that the female winter soldier’s voice would end up being a trigger for Matt. I don’t actually do a lot of planning when I write lol. It seems kind of misogynist, having the only woman’s voice trigger a panic attack? I could go back and alter it, does anyone think I should? 
> 
> Heyoooo anyone an artist or writer that might be interested in contributing to an age-play based zine for the MCU? If you know anyone that might be interested, please spread the word? Message me here on ao3 or on tumblr http://fangirlingicizing.tumblr.com/post/159532217437/possible-fanzine
> 
> Also, can I just say, I love you guys. The readers. For sticking with me and putting up with my irregular posting schedule and everything? You guys are why and I write and I just wanna thank you.


	35. I Journey Through

Matt sits on the couch on the common floor, trying to get his racing heart under control. Clint perches on the back of the couch next to him, straddling it, his knee brushing Matt’s shoulder every so often, comforting. The endless terror, the feeling of something coming for him, of danger, it’s mostly gone. All that’s left are the aftereffects: confusion and stress. And shame. There is no threat, no danger, the soldiers are safely locked up and Jarvis would warn them, so no possible reason exists for this kind of response. 

Everyone saw him. Even Bucky. 

Above him, Clint’s voice, quiet, uncharacteristically somber. “I had a couple of panic attacks after… after New York. Natasha and my therapist really helped. So much happened, everything was different. It was frightening.”

Steve comes back from the kitchen with a glass of water and gently taps his hand, but Matt mutely shakes his head. His hands feel numb, he’s afraid he’ll just drop it. Taking a seat on the coffee table, Steve folds his hands around the glass, the rasp of dry flesh. Steve's heart is steady, slow and even, and Matt wonders how often the various members of the Avengers have experienced something similar. Wonders if he’s being a burden on Steve.

“After Loki, after… after Phil… it was hard. I couldn’t leave my bedroom without vomiting. I couldn’t make decisions, I got dizzy when someone asked me to make a choice. I thought it was still Loki, I thought he was still in my head, and that would make it worse. Set me off more.” Clint pauses, shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders tensing as he hunches over. Too much sharing, too personal, maybe. “You feel a little better?”

Matt nods, he doesn’t trust himself to speak yet. He’s not sure if his voice will tremble. Or worse, the lingering choking in his throat might turn into tears.

On his other side, opposite Clint, Bucky is squeezed into the corner of the couch, pajama-clad legs drawn up so he can press his face into them, breathing shallow and wet. His right hand is firmly wrapped around Matt’s own, damp with sweat that could be from either of them. He shifts closer to Matt, seeking comfort, but there's none to give. Matt’s guilt grows. 

Clint swings his leg over the back of the couch. “Do you know what set you off?”

Russian. The voice, angry, speaking Russian. Matt opens his mouth to say it but finds he can’t push the words out. They’re trapped behind the lump in his throat.

“It’s probably gonna happen again, I’m not gonna beat around the bush. You have triggers, things that will flip your switch and make you feel like you’re in danger. Start a list of them as you figure them out and give them to Jarvis. He’ll let us all know so we don’t do or say anything that will give you a panic attack. Jarvis can also help with any movies or things that might give you one, too.” He dips his head down, the sound of his breathing changes, and when he looks up it’s almost like a different person. Like the Clint that Matt remembers. His voice is stronger, lighter. “That was a lot of info to throw at you right after one, huh.”

“I’ll remember, I’ll try to help,” Steve pipes up, sitting up straight. He appreciates a job, a mission.

Clint slips off of the couch, stands up, still hunched over. Embarrassed. Definitely feeling vulnerable after sharing so much. “I’m gonna go down, try to talk to the soldiers again. Unless... you still need me to stay?”

Matt shakes his head. No, Steve is here. And Matt shouldn’t be keeping Clint from his work. Not over something like this.

Taking his hands out of his pocket, Clint rests one on Matt’s head, an unexpected but comforting touch, and Matt wonders if he does this for Tasha when she’s upset. “It’ll be okay. We’ll help you.” He ruffles Matt’s hair before hurrying off to the elevator, leaving the three of them sitting.

It’s quiet. Awkward.

“Hungry? Thirsty?” Steve asks, his voice filling the silence.

Again Matt shakes his head. He doesn’t want anything. A part of him wants to be left alone, but that trembling ache in his guts, the sharp cold in his heart, makes him too afraid to ask Steve to leave. And there’s no way he could send Bucky away, not when he’s just starting to reach out to him again. Who knows how long it’ll take to regain his trust, they don’t know what lies Zemo told him. Matt should be working with Bucky, trying to draw him out of his shell, not sitting here like a child frightened of the boogeyman.

Steve shifts onto the couch. He hesitates, lets Matt have a chance to move away, before wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. For a minute, Matt stiffens up, his breath skips and stutters in his chest, but he goes limp in stages as that familiar warmth seeps into his muscles. It takes effort, releasing the tension. There’s the smell of Steve but stronger and he hasn’t showered yet so he smells a little like greasy hair, dried sweat from when he fought the soldier. As they sit, Matt’s breathing continues to slow, matches the other man’s, and the lump in his throat dissipates. Exhaustion sets in. Ever so slightly Bucky shifts closer, the cushion bouncing a tiny bit, and his shoulder grazes Matt’s own. It’s almost enough. It’s almost peaceful. Time passes slowly.

“Excuse me, but the others are in the elevator headed to this floor,” Jarvis announces.

On either side of him, the two stir, their breathing changing, hearts increasing in speed, as they wake up. Steve yawns and sits up a little. Bucky rubs his eyes and, thankfully, doesn’t move away.

The elevator doors open. Tony’s voice drifts out. “-ourse I want to feed them. I’m all in favor of treating enemy combatants with a little kindness. A lot of kindness. They have Hulk-sized couches and stuffed animals, after all. It’s just weird. What if they have allergies? The bearded one might be lactose intolerant. Did you ask? Jarvis-”

“You’re going to have Jarvis ask if they’re lactose intolerant?” Clint asks.

“If they have any allergies. That’s all I’m asking.”

“They might not be able to eat solid foods,” Natasha says. “Like Bucky.”

They round the corner into the common area. Natasha and Clint pause, a brief stutter in their steps, but continue into the kitchen with the rest. Immediately Tony sits at the huge round dining room table and grabs the fruit bowl, dragging it closer and digging around for what smells like blueberries. Clint sits next to him and grabs an apple, reminding Matt of the story of William Tell.

Bruce and Natasha open the fridge and cupboards, respectively.

“And what are we feeding them anyway?” Tony asks. The smell of blueberries wafts from his mouth and fingers.

Steve squeezes Matt’s shoulder then hoists himself up. His shoulder muscle sounds tight from being in an awkward position for so long. “Oatmeal seems safe. Make it with water. You can send a bunch of fixings down. Butter, fruit, maple syrup, cinnamon and sugar. Whatever else.”

“The man with a plan!” His grin is audible. Standing up, Tony pops a few more blueberries, chomping down on them. They squish between his teeth, a satisfying sound. “All right, so. I’m gonna shower. I’m gonna go to my lab. I’m gonna leave the Jackson Five with you all. Call me if there’s any exciting new developments, like how they got past Jarvis’ detection. That’s two in, what, a couple days? Jarvis. We need to have a talk.” Silence meets his words and Matt wonders if Jarvis is feeling a little defensive. If Jarvis can feel defensive.

Opening his mouth, Steve takes a breath, but Tony is already breezing past. Whatever is bothering Steve, making him so tense and anxious, he’s going to need to address it soon. Matt can hear his stomach rolling.

Bruce starts pulling things out of the cupboards. Bowls, plastic cutlery. A tray, it clacks woodenly on the marble countertops and Matt can sense its length, depth, the handles on either end. “Oatmeal it is.” He sounds privately pleased, proud of Steve for the ingenious solution. “Do you want any, Matt? Bucky?”

Matt remembers the breakfast sandwich he had, remembers Bucky didn’t eat, didn’t even drink his juice. “Could we have smoothies?” he asks.

I’ll do it!” Clint pops off of his chair. “What about orange and banana? I wanted to make that the other day!”

“Sounds good.” He squeezes Bucky’s hand, leans close, whispers. “Please drink a little. Please.” It's becoming a mantra. Or a prayer. He’s so close, a few stray strands of Bucky’s hair brush his face, tickle his cheek, under his eye.

Muscles tense, metal arm chirps a small song, but Bucky nods. A tiny, unhappy nod, but a nod nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for this chapter: Matt is embarrassed about his panic attack and as a result uses unkind language towards himself. Panic attacks are nothing to being ashamed of; he didn’t have a very healthy upbringing so he thinks it’s a weakness. Everyone in the MCU needs a good therapist. 
> 
> Rewatching Daredevil season 2, at one point Matt tells Elektra how many people are coming for them and what weapons they're carrying. He can tell they have longbows and katanas???? Okay, I feel like I need to step up my-Matt’s-hearing game. Lol
> 
> Tony is very much a fan of treating their “prisoners” kindly. Because Iron Man 1 and all… He is a fan of feeding prisoners and not torturing them and stuff.


	36. The Further I Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential trigger warning for Matt being very negative about his mental health and his panic attacks.

Matt works the punching bag over. The satisfying rasp of the thick vinyl over his knuckles. The soft hiss of the sand shifting. The resistance pushing against his arm. He can hear Bucky on the mats behind him, doing tumbling exercises. He’s still little, mentally, and clinging to Matt like a barnacle, heart fluttering anxiously anytime they’re too far apart. So Clint showed him some exercises to do while Matt works out: somersaults leading into handsprings, cartwheels, handstands that become walkovers. While Matt punches and kicks his frustration out on the bag, he can hear the slapping of hands and feet on the mat, quiet puffs of breath. Hopefully it’s helping Bucky work out of some of his own anxiety.

It seems like Bucky is starting to relax a little. He ate some fruit from the common room’s fruit bowl for breakfast and even drank the entire smoothie Bruce made them. Everyone is careful around Bucky, not pushing too hard, giving him plenty of space, and it seems to be helping. Hopefully, the more time passes with no one betraying or hurting Bucky, the more he accepts that Zemo was lying. Hopefully.

A few last hits and Matt is done. Panting, he starts to unwrap his hands, trying to remember where the jumping rope is kept. Steve gave him a rundown of the gym, each room, but it feels as if Matt’s brain is only half in his head today. Every so often he has a burst of anger and anxiety every time he thinks about the way he carried on yesterday. The way he had to be carted off because of, what, his delicate sensibilities. Lip curling, Matt throws his hand wraps down, furious, then immediately regrets it when Bucky flinches, his metal arm singing, before going still and silent.

Taking a deep breath, Matt tilts his head back, trying to swallow his anger down. “Jarvis, where are the jump ropes kept?”

“In a cabinet to your left. Would you like instructions on how to get there, Mr. Murdock?”

“No, I remember now.” Matt starts to walk over then adjusts his course to head towards Bucky. Crouching down by the other man, Matt smiles. “How’re you doing?” he asks.

Bucky curls up tighter, the shape of him becoming a small mound. His breathing is still fairly steady, though, and his heart is even. “M’okay…”

Matt wants to reach out but restrains himself. He wonders if Bucky is restraining himself, too, if he wants to cuddle but is still unsure. It seems ridiculous, both of them wanting physical contact and refusing to give in. But it’s Bucky’s decision to make and he won’t take that choice away from him. As he goes to open his mouth, about to respond, Jarvis interrupts.

“Mr. Murdock, Mr. Nelson has been calling the tower trying to reach you. Captain Rogers took the call yesterday and explained the current situation to Mr. Nelson-”

Matt winces at that.

“However, he is calling again today. Would you like to speak to him, Mr. Murdock?”

“Sure,” Matt replies. He doesn’t want to. Especially not if Foggy is going to ask about Matt’s panic attack. But he has to, doesn’t he. He learned about keeping Foggy in the dark the hard way.

“Dude!” Foggy’s voice fills the gym and Bucky’s hand snakes out, snagging the hem of Matt’s sweaty shirt, clutching it. “Did Steve--is it cool if I call him Steve?--did he tell you about the shootings?”

Blinking, Matt tries to parse out what is being said. Nothing about the panic attack. Something about shootings? “No, Steve didn’t tell me, what shootings?”

“The Dogs of Hell, the biker gang, they got, got exploded! Someone blew up their clubhouse! And THEN someone went after Reyes!”

“Wha-... Who?”

Foggy huffs. “District Attorney Reyes? We’ve gone up against her and her cronies when we were at Landman and Zack?”

Matt has a vague memory of a piercing level of attention he could feel, a deeper voice that was smooth but grating. So much has happened in the meantime. “So is she… dead?” He abruptly becomes aware of Bucky beside him. He’s breathing faster, sweating a little more. Frightened by their talk, maybe. Without thinking, Matt puts an arm around his shoulder, petting the slick metal with his fingertips. Bucky stiffens and Matt is brought fully back once again into the room. So much for respecting his choice. Before he can pull his arm away, the tension in Bucky’s back and neck lessens, muscles loosen, and he leans slightly against him. Matt has to swallow a few times past the lump in his throat before speaking again. “What about the Dogs?”

“Finito, my friend. Shot up, just like the… like the Irish.” There’s something else, a tightness in Foggy’s voice that Matt knows. He’s hiding something. “Listen, I talked to Steve and I’m getting out of town, visiting family. My current cases can be handled remotely, and I, I wish you’d come with me. You know how much my mom loves you.”

Matt’s hand reflexively cups Bucky’s shoulder. “You know I can’t do that, Foggy,” he says softly.

A frustrated sigh. “I know, I know. Listen I didn’t want to tell you this because I was really hoping you’d come with me, but I should have known you’d rather play hero. A few weeks ago Reyes’ assistant Tower gave me an envelope with an X-ray in it. Belonging to a ‘Frank Castle.’ I did some digging on him. I put together a file, Jarvis can access it on my work computer and read you it. I think, I think this is all connected. Listen to me, Matty. Listen for once. This is not good. This is all very, very bad and way above your pay grade.”

“Okay,” Matt murmurs, trying to sound soothing. To sound confident. “Okay, I heard you, Foggy.” He’s thankful Foggy didn’t go into detail, not with Bucky here. 

Foggy is silent for a moment, the moment stretches, tension builds. Matt frowns, uncertain what else he can say; he knows Foggy wants a promise that he won’t get involved but that would be a lie. “Damn it, Matty,” Foggy hisses, his voice thick with a million emotions. “Every day you have to call me, every day after you go out in your costume you call me and let me know you’re still alive.”

That he can do. “I will. I promise.”

The call ends and all Matt can do is sit there, thinking. Frank Castle. He thinks of the lone shooter from the Irish massacre, thinks of the angry man he fought with on the roof, a man so flush with rage he was borderline hysterical. Thinks of Foggy following leads. Alone. In danger. Working by himself day in and day out. And above all he thinks about Hell’s Kitchen. The tide of death flooding the streets.

He comes back to the present when Bucky shifts against him, pulling away. Matt sits back, letting the other man go.

“Hey,” Matt says, forcing his voice to be positive, upbeat. He’s doing a lot of pretending today. It’s not easy. He feels like his entire body is a string pulled too tight, ready to snap. “Let’s do some stretches, huh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a minute, huh? I’m really sorry about how long it’s taken me to update.
> 
> Matt is viewing his panic attacks from a very mentally unhealthy place. Panic attacks are nothing to be ashamed of. 
> 
> Oh, I wanted to explain something I noticed when I reread chapters. Jarvis is turned off essentially on Matt’s floor except in his bedroom. Partially for emergencies and partially to help if Matt needs assistance.


	37. The Less I Know

The next step with the soldiers is information. They’re willingly eating now that there’s been no adverse side effects to the food. So Tony gave them all simplified tablets with access to multiple encyclopedias and carefully curated sites, all of it monitored by Jarvis. They went into cryo right as the World Wide Web was introduced to the general public, so the likelihood of them being able to bypass the AI is pretty much nil. 

Steve has Bucky for the evening, they’re having a discussion about what would be best for the soldiers. He and Natasha are the only ones with a remotely similar background, according to Steve, so their input is important.

Matt is supposed to be there.

He feels a twinge of guilt. He’s been neglecting Steve, the man has been obviously dealing with something, something related to Tony. Something he’s afraid to bring up. Matt knows he should have approached him, gotten him to open up so they could deal with the problem as a team. Instead he’s been in his own head, chasing his thoughts as they run in circles. 

The file. Frank Castle. Hell’s Kitchen. His duty. 

Foggy was thorough. Castle’s injury, the bullet in his brain, was from a shootout in the park involving the Irish, the Cartel, and the Dogs of War. A shootout that took the lives of his children and wife.

Last time they met, the shooter told Matt he used to have kids. Between that and his choice in targets, Matt is certain that’s the shooter’s identity.

Reyes was clearly hiding something in regards to Castle. A former hospital employee told Foggy that Castle was constantly surrounded by people in suits and that there was a Do Not Resuscitate order. An order signed by the District Attorney.

The obvious next step is Tower, Reyes’ assistant.

So instead of being with his family, Matt is pulling his suit on in Steve’s bathroom so Jarvis can’t tattle on him. Instead of being there for Bucky, instead of comforting and reaffirming their bond, he’s chasing a murderer that keeps almost killing him.

Foggy’s voice is in his head, telling him what an idiot he’s being. All he can do is agree.

Matt adjusts his helmet and steps into the hall, trailing his gloved hand along the wall as he approaches the vent by Steve’s bedroom. When Bucky thought Tony was a “handler,” he and Matt went through and found escape routes that could bypass Jarvis. There are only two. It’s probably how the soldiers got in.

It’s a tight fit in spots and involves a lot of vertical drops, Matt’s sweating from exertion before long. He has to press his arms and feet against the sides of the longer drops so he can crawl down. It’s claustrophobic and dusty and the ringing in his ears isn’t helping. His side and head ache. He keeps telling himself that he’s only going to talk to Tower. It won’t get physical. He doesn’t have to be in tip-top shape. It’ll be fine. He’ll be safe.

Because every time he stops repeating it, it feels like his throat is closing. 

He has to power through. To prove to himself that his fear doesn’t control him. 

When he kicks out the grate and slides out to land in a dumpster below, Matt is almost comforted by the smell of the trash. At least he’s out in the open. He takes the trip to the DA’s office easy, avoiding any difficult leaps in case his sense of balance is still effected by his head injury. So far so good. Nothing to worry about.

On the roof, Matt listens. For Tower’s name, for Castle’s name. People are talking about the Punisher and from context clues he figures out they’re talking about Castle; apparently the media thought he needed a clever nickname. Not that he has room to talk. 

On the second floor. “Thanks, Mr. Tower. You, too.” There. 

Matt moves away from the ledge—he was too scared of losing his balance to get on it—when the sound of heavy breathing filters through the ringing. Freezing, Matt tenses, his heart racing so hard he can feel it in his sternum. The person steps out, Matt can smell gunpowder and dried blood, he knows it’s Frank but a part of him hears someone else. 

“I didn’t do it, Red,” Frank grunts. His voice is low, rough, masculine, but Matt doesn’t hear him. He hears a woman speaking Russian. 

“Someone’s settin’ me up. I’m here to figure out who.”

Matt smells his apartment. Hears the footsteps as she dodges chairs. Feels the air shift as she speeds towards him. He can’t breathe. His lungs are frozen, his throat is closing. She’s coming but he can’t move fast enough. How can he fight back. She’s a supersoldier. She’s enhanced. She’s going to kill him. She won’t stop until he’s dead. 

A different voice. Not a better voice. Filtering in slightly. Someone. That hurt him. Danger. Everywhere, danger. Matt tries to inhale, he should yell. Someone is close. They smell like guns. He’s going to be shot. She’s going to choke him. He’s going to die. He’s dying. It’s going to hurt. 

Big hands grab his shoulders, shake him. “What the fuck-“

“Stop,” Matt gasps. He’s able to drag in a thin trickle of air. “No. No-“ His brain screams fight. Fight back. Matt throws out an arm, his senses are skewed, the information coming in is wrong, he’s in his apartment but his brain is trying to say he’s outside. He’s fighting a woman but his brain says a man is shaking him. “Stop!” He’s able to knock the other person’s arms away and takes a step back. He’s in his hallway but his brain says there’s an empty void behind him. But he’s home. And she’s right there, her boot crunches on the gravel as she steps towards him, but there’s no gravel at home. 

Matt slides a numb leg back, hits the ledge. He’s thrown off balance but she yells and grabs him.

“Holy shit-” she snarls. But it’s English and it’s a man’s voice. Arms around Matt, pulling him forward, spinning him so he falls on the gravel of the hallway-rooftop-hallway.

Matt throws his arms up. He’s sobbing and he can’t stop. “Stop!” Matt yells. “Stop!”

The other person kneels by him, grabs Matt’s hands in their own, gathering them against their chest so he stops flailing. “Quiet,” the rough voice says, softer, almost kind. “It’s okay, it’s okay, Red. I won’t hurt you. You’re safe.”

It feels like an eternity before he’s able to feel his arms and legs. He’s able to breathe.

The... the shooter? Not the Russian. Frank. His name is Frank. He has Matt’s hands squeezed between his own, Matt focuses on the way the blood is cut off to a few fingers, the gun calluses and fingerprint whorls rub against his skin. Basic sensations. “I think we gotta talk, Red.”

Matt remembers how their last talk went. He wants to flee, run home and hide, but there’s no strength left in his body. He feels like a little kid again, boneless and fevered, sick. 

Holding one of Matt’s wrists, Frank slides it over his shoulders and yanks him to his feet, steadying him with a thick arm around his waist. After a minute Matt’s able to get his feet under himself.

“Where’re we going?” Matt asks, struggling to stay upright as Frank drags him towards the roof’s exit.

“Somewhere safe. I think maybe I’m not the only one that needs a bolt hole right now.”


End file.
